


Blood Bond

by Little_Lat



Series: Blood Ties [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Athos Whump, F/M, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Resurrection, Spies & Secret Agents, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:03:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6166798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We take ‘im down,” Porthos growled, eyes narrowing on Richelieu’s picture with a kind of hatred Athos had never seen in him before, “We’ll make sure Richelieu never again sees the light of day... For ‘im. For d’Artagnan.”</p><p>---</p><p>The Musketeers have declared a full scale silent war against Richelieu and the Guard, however they never could have predicted who would fighting against them from the other side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm back with the next installment of the Blood Ties series. I realise I left you with quite the cliff hanger last time, hopefully this will make up for that.
> 
> The reading of the previous works in this series before Blood Bond is reccomended.
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think!

_My name is d’Artagnan de Lupiac._

_My wife’s name is Constance de Lupiac._

_My teammate’s names are Aramis Herblay and Porthos du Vallon._

_Our leader’s name is Athos Alexander._

_We are Musketeers._

_All for one and one for all._

* * *

 

How long had it been? A month? How had d’Artagnan been gone a month? The funeral was over, the body was buried in a grave which no longer looked so fresh. Athos made the journey to the gravesite every day of enforced leave (not a punishment as Treville had emphasised, but some much needed thinking time to clear his head). He hadn’t brought flowers, but did wipe any stray dirt and leaves from the marbled headstone. Once it was clean he ran a finger across the engraving. It was a beautiful marker, one which Constance could never have paid for himself. From what he’d heard, it had been a gift from Anne Royaline. She’d said d’Artagnan deserved the best. It was a tall piece of black stone which had been buffed to a bright shine. d’Artagnan’s name was picked out in gold across the marker, along with the dates of life and the words, “No more devoted husband or brother will ever be found. All for one.”

All for one…

Athos swallowed, the numbness in his chest swelling at the words.

I’m sorry… He promised the stone yet again.

* * *

 

“Say it, Charles!” The voice snarled above him, hand pressing into his burns, causing the dull roar of his injuries to shriek into white hot arks which across his body stole his breath.

“Tell me you’re mine!”

_My name is d’Artagnan de.. Something._

_My wife’s name is Constance._

_My teammate’s names are Aramis and Po… Porthos?_

_Our leader’s name is Athos._

_All for one and one for all._

* * *

 

Six weeks. Six weeks and Athos found himself sitting across from his Captain. Treville leaned forward, his sharp eyes taking the younger man’s crumpled suit and dark, tired eyes. He had attempted to keep an eye on the man during his leave, spoken to him on the phone, but now he realised just how much had slipped passed him. Perhaps giving Athos time to think had been a mistake, perhaps it had done more harm than good. Too much time to over analyse and brood and go over events again and again until he was driven mad.

Too much time to self-destruct.

Possibly it was better to have Athos here, among people who cared for him, while he dealt with the loss of their youngest.

“Do you want to return?”

“I do, Sir.”

Treville rubbed a hand over his jaw, “And are you fit to return, Athos?”

The abrupt question made the man pause, considering the matter. Finally he exhaled.

“Honestly? I am not sure. I want to be, but I don’t think I will know until I try.”

“Thank you for being candid,” Treville nodded. It was an honest response, if not a positive one. That was enough for Treville. Decision made, the older man reached into his desk and retrieved Athos’ ID badge.

“We’ve missed you, Athos,” Treville offered his second in command a small smile, “It’s good to have you back.”

* * *

 

“Say it. Say it!”

_My name is d’Art-…d’Artagnan?_

_My wife’s name is Constance._

_My teammate’s names are… Are…_

_Our leader’s name is…_

_All for one._

* * *

Three month. How could it be three months since they had lost him? Athos squeezed his eyes shut, the wine in his system sharpening every guilty emotion which bombarded him, stabbing them with their spiked accusations. He’d almost forgotten. How? How had it been three months? How had his life been allowed to continue while his was cut short? It should have been him, it should him in that warehouse. It should have been –

A hand slid into his hair and tugged hard, forcing Athos’ head back. He hissed at the glorious pain as it jerked him out of his spiralling and back to reality. His eyes opened, taking in the bright blond hair and blue eyes which scrutinised him

“Distraction?” Ninon’s voice wafted over his skin, her lips ghosting over his exposed jaw.

An excited shudder coursed through Athos’ body. Just for a second his guilt dulled, overrun by a quake of anticipation, excitement about what was to come.

“Please, Ninon.”

* * *

 

“Tell me what I _want_ to hear, Charles!”

Pain. White, scalding, sweeping pain.

_My name is d’Art.._

“Say it!”

_My name is d’Art…_

_My name is…_

* * *

Six months. Even after six months the office felt wrong, so, so, wrong. Athos pressed the thought away as he faced his team. Their new mission briefing was clutched in his hand, Treville’s orders clear and fresh in his mind. Aramis offered a small smile, Porthos a nod, as they waited for him to begin. Athos dropped his gaze back to the brown folder in his hand, an attempt to control the temptation to glance back over to the empty desk. To d’Artagnan’s old desk. Someone had been in during his absence. His lap top was gone, his name plate too. The picture of d’Artagnan and Constance, smiling at the camera in some Parisian bar had been removed. Athos had taken that photograph on d’Artagnan’s 21st birthday… Part of him wished they’d left it up somewhere in the office. Because now there was not a hint of d’Artagnan left in their office. Not even a scrap of paper baring his hand writing. It was like they’d transported the room back in time, as if the last twenty months of their lives never happened. As if d’Artagnan had never happened.

Athos shook his head, shook himself out of those dark thoughts, and looked up at his teammates. They just smiled back, waiting patiently.

“So,” Porthos leant forward carefully as not to knock his still healing side, “What’s Treville got for us?”

Athos flipped the file open. Dark, wrinkled eyes surrounded by pale skin and short grey hair stared back at him from a photograph. He flipped the file, so the photograph looked out at his teammates. Aramis’ eyes darkened but Porthos let out a low growl.

“He wants us ta’ take down Richelieu?”

“d’Art-“ Saying the name out loud was harder than Athos expected. He swallowed and tried again. “d’Artagnan’s last act was to send us photographs of that dynamite. Marmion might have been buying but it was Richelieu who sold it. We take down Richelieu, his network, the whole Guard and we do it in his memory.”

Athos paused, his eyes falling on each of his teammates. They all had a personal stake in the assignment, in fact every single agent did. By rights they likely shouldn’t even be handling the case, but Treville was never one to be constrained by rules. Rules really were more guidelines to the man anyway.

With a suspicious amount of blinking Aramis dropped his gaze to his own desk and nodded, “For him.” Athos decided not to mention the wobble of his teammate’s voice.

Porthos’ face was rather drawn when Athos glanced his way. His lips were tight as his gaze darted to the empty chair in the room before returning to Athos. His voice though, when he answered, was strong.

“We take ‘im down,” Porthos growled, eyes narrowing on Richelieu’s picture with a kind of hatred Athos had never seen in him before, “We’ll make sure Richelieu never again sees the light of day... For ‘im. For d’Artagnan.”

* * *

 

“Say it. Now! Tell me who you belong too!”

_My name is…_

_My name is…_

Pain. Red, scorching, all consuming pain.

_My name is…_

“Say it! Say _it_!”

“I’m…” The words dragged up his throat like glass shard, slicing and cutting his gullet as he spoke.

“That’s it! Keep going, tell me what I want to hear and the pain will stop.”

“I’m yours…”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! thanks so much for all your comments and kind words! I realise this story has become a bit of a rollercoster ride, but thanks for sticking with it!
> 
> Hope you enjoy chapter 2 ^^

"Is he here?" Athos demanded as he stormed through the rundown house, the sea of agent's parting around him as if repelled away. His eyes roamed for a member of his team, quickly finding Aramis just as he pushed a cuffed man through the door. Athos vaguely recognised the skin head as one a Guard front from one of the surveillance pictures. The man was cursing loudly at Aramis who just raised an eye brow and he shoved him to his knees.

"And what would your mother say, such shocking words!" Aramis tutted, "Disappointing!"

He motioned to another Musketeer to take over the processing of the prisoner before jogging over to the raid leader.

"Upstairs is clear," Aramis said, causing Athos to shake his head bitterly.

"No sign of him?"

"If there is we haven't found it yet. Seven Guard members altogether, but no Richelieu."

Athos, like in the last five raids which had all ended the same, felt the urge to break something.

"God _damn_ it!" He ran a hand savagely through his hair, despite the fact he wanted to start hurling punches.

That made six raids, practically a raid a month since they had turned their attention to dismantling The Guard. All together they amounted to three brothels (all with girls under eighteen), two warehouses and one illegal casino. Richelieu would be furious, without a doubt, but they still didn't _have_ him. Of course the raid of another warehouse and confiscation of its illegal goods would be a heavy blow to the illegal organisation, but somehow it wasn't the same. Yes Athos wanted The Guard to be dead, gone and off the streets of Paris but he wanted their leader more. It wouldn't feel like they had _won_ until Richelieu was in handcuffs.

"I want this place torn apart!" Athos growled, his eyes roaming the room. It was a neglected space, with bare floorboards and smoke stained walls. Boxes and crates of illegal goods were piled around the space. Agents had already begun sorting through assortment of contraband, Athos saw glimpses of guns and knives. He shook his head and turned back to his teammate.

"If Richelieu's ever been here I want to know. Any hint to where he might be hiding out, I want to know. Anything, _anything_ at all, I want to know."

Aramis nodded and clicked his fingers at two other Musketeers.

"You heard the man, let's go."

The buzz of Athos' phone against his leg distracted him from the assortment of Musketeers. He turned and stormed back from the building, his hand digging the vibrating phone from his pocket. Treville's name flashed across his screen, _God damn it.._

"Struck out, Captain," Athos sighed, leaning his back against the brick wall, "We're dismantling the operation but there's no sign of Richelieu…"

* * *

 

"They did _what_?!"

The young man ducked, only narrowly missed the mobile phone which crashed against the wall where his head had been.

"That is the _sixth_ raid as many months!" The old man looked for a second like he might send something else flying, which had the young man poised on his toes, but thankfully Richelieu began pacing instead.

"They are _crippling_ us," The man went silent as he stalked. The boy began to inch back, hoping to slip away from the room and out of the firing line, but then Richelieu turned and fixed him with a glare which nailed his feet to the floor.

"How many people did we loose, Jude?"

The man, Jude, hesitated which did nothing but fuel his employer's rage. Blue eyes narrowed, as if daring the man to lie.

"How _many?"_

Jude swallowed, his hands wringing each other under the discomforting gaze, "Seven…"

"Seven?!"

A crystal ash tray flew through the air and shattered inches from Jude's elbow.

"Sir-"

"Seven!" Richelieu stalked back to his desk, fumbling with a cigar. He didn't say anything for a few minutes until he had it lit, clutched in his fingers. He took a few deep breaths, savouring the smoke, before he tried to speak again.

"That brings us to… Twenty nine Guards, nineteen whore, six locations... They're bringing us too our knees!"

Jude swallowed, wondering vaguely if the cigar was going to be the next thing flung in his direction, but Richelieu seemed to have calmed down. He ran his hand over his smooth jaw and down to his goatee.

"Of the twenty nine, how many know of this place?"

Jude shook his head. The small building, situated on the southern outskirts of the city, was only known to a precious few within the Guard. It was out of necessity. In reality even the most trustworthy brother could be flipped by law enforcement, there had to be somewhere off everyone's radar where Richelieu could remain safe from the raids.

"None."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," And Jude was. The number of Guards who knew about the rented rooms could be counted on one hand. The alias on the paper work had no connection to the gang. They were safe from the raids, even the most stringent detectives would never find any way to connect the Guard with the building. After all it was is Jude's best interest to keep investigators as far from them as possible, he hardly wanted to be taken in a raid either. As long as he stuck close to Richelieu he would be safe.

… Or as long as he kept dodging any projectiles flung in his direction.

"Right…" The smoking seemed to further calm the older man down. Jude wrinkled his nose as clouds of smoke were wafted his way, "Right." He stayed silent as he finished the cigar, as Jude hovered on next to the wall. Once the cigar had been smoked down to a stub Richelieu glanced around, looking for the ashtray, which was now shattered on the floor and just dropped it to the floor. The embers were ground out aggressively under his dress shoe.

"What name was that last warehouse under?"

"Val'Rose…"

Richelieu didn't react as if he'd heard the younger man. Instead he turned back to his desk and shuffled through one of the piles of papers.

"As is…" Richelieu finally found what it was looking for and tugged it out, "Val'Rose's name is on the tenancy agreement for our new warehouse. If these people are as good as they seem they'll be there within the week."

"You want me to clear it out?" Jude reached for his phone, ready to ring the Guards in the building.

But Richelieu shook his head, "No."

Jude, phone frozen half in and half his pocket, frowned at his boss, "But, you just said-"

"I know what I said!" Richelieu snapped, shoot a glare at Jude which made his mouth snap closed before he continued, "But we need to know who we are dealing with. None of our contacts have been able to tell who's behind these raids. There are _no_ records of anything with the police in Paris – this witch hunt is not their work. The next best guess is INTERPOL, but we need to be sure."

"So you're going to… Let them raid the warehouse?" Jude frowned, imagining the half a dozen Guards which would surely be arrested.

Richelieu just nodded, seemingly unconcerned by the men they were effectively betraying.

"We need to know who has our cards marked! We need to know who we are dealing with."

Jude frowned. The sacrifice seemed… Wrong somehow… But Richelieu had made his mind up and it wasn't worth Jude's life to go against the man. Richelieu didn't take kindly to betrayal – not that he seemed to mind dishing it out himself.

"Besides…" Richelieu mused, his eyes flickering to the door to the back of the office. The door was a heavy iron with thick, large, hinges and substantial dark combination lock. "We could use an opportunity to try out our newest weapon."

Jude's heart thudded. The newest weapon. He hadn't seen it, him, yet… Richelieu had been instant. The padlock had remained firmly on the door to the basement for 10 months now and no one had passed through without express permission from their leader. Mostly that had just been Doctor what's his name and Richelieu himself. Jude had never been asked and he'd _certainly_ never offered. He knew, vaguely, what had been going on… He knew there was someone down there. The cries had filtered up on more than one occasion, often when Richelieu had disappeared down the steps although sometimes while he was alone.

Whatever Richelieu had done to the man down there… Jude's eyes travelled to the door… It had sounded horrific.

"The newest weapon…" Jude swallowed, his skin prickling uncomfortably at the glint in Richelieu's gaze, "You never said… Where he came from…"

"And that's not important," Richelieu waved the subtle question away as he strode over to the door and began to line up the combination lock tumblers. "Come, I think it's a fine time for you to meet our next line of defence."

The pad locked gave a clunk as it the numbers lined up and Richelieu tugged it from the door.

"After you…" He flicked his wrist dismissively.

Jude's eyes widened. "What, now?"

"Of course."

The younger man, reluctantly, nodded. His stomach churned with apprehension and, despite his urge to turn and run, stepped into the dark corridor. Only a few steps inside Jude found the floorboards dropping down into steps. Every second step seemed to creak – as if to warn him themselves he shouldn't be there. The twelve steps seemed to simultaneously go on forever and yet the cold stone floor below seemed to come all too quickly.

There was no natural light in the sticky aired basement, just a dense, impenetrable darkness which seemed to loom into the small spot of light next to the steps. It wasn't until Richelieu flicked on the artificial light strip, which flickered a few times before finally buzzing into life, that Jude saw what he was meant to be looking at.

The room was bare, save for a metal bed on the far edge and the figure curled on it. The body didn't flinch at the sudden intrusion of the harsh light. Jude cranes his neck but couldn't see much, just broad shoulders clothed in a dark t-shirt and the curve of his legs covered in black combat trousers.

"Present yourself!" Richelieu commanded from a few steps above the scene. Jude watched, nerves balling up in his throat, as the body on the bed began to stir. The movements were slow, precise, as the man peeled himself from the metal frame.

"Get into position."

The figure sank to his knees, hands laced behind his back. Flashes of red caught Jude's eye. Most of the man's left arm was hidden by the position, but the skin which was visible was thick with rough, red, scars. Although Jude couldn't see how far down his arm it travelled, he could see the way it snaked under his dark shirt, emerging again on his neck. The angry scars wrapped in thick tendrils around his neck and up along the side of his head around left his ear and left eye, which was only half covered by dark matted hair which fell to his shoulders. The scars were unnerving but it was the eyes which caused Jude to swallow and look back to Richelieu for reassurance. What he found in those eyes too uncomfortable to think about. There was something, something _missing_ , in those eyes. A spark, a light… Anything… Instead the dark gave was…

Empty.

"Isn't he a marvel?" Richelieu smiles as he descended the last few steps.

"I…" Jude licked his lips nervously, "Is he dangerous?"

"To the wrong people…" Richelieu came to a stop at Jude's side, his eyes fixed on his newest plaything, "Do you wish a demonstration?"

Jude's eyes widened and his feet took two steps back, "No! I mean… I don't think…"

"Come now, Jude," The man pressed a hand to his back and gave him hard shove forward.

"Here-" Something metallic clattered to the floor next to him. A knife. "-Something to protect yourself…"

Jude bent and gripped the knife nervously in his right hand, realising with a sinking feeling he wasn't going to be able to get out of this. Silence filled the room for a few heartbeats. The boy, a statue on his knees, Richelieu gleefully watching the tension bled across Jude's face.

It seemed like Richelieu may have changed his mind, but then-

"Take him down, Charles."

The attack was instant. One moment the man, Charles, had been frozen on his knees and the next he seemed to be everywhere at once. A fist crunched into his gut, winding him, followed by one to the windpipe. Jude's feet stumbled backward as he choked, only for a foot to hook around his ankle. One hand yank and his ankle was pulled from under him. He fell, the knife clattering from his hand, and hit the concreate hard. The onslaught didn't let up and immediately the boy was there. An elbow slammed against his sternum, pain rocketing out across his chest. A heartbeat later the cool metal blade of the knife which had been dropped only moments earlier was pressed into his neck. Jude's eyes fluttered closed, knowing the pressure was just moments away from slicing into his neck.

"Stand down, Charles. Back to position."

Immediately the heavy body weight disappeared. Jude coughed. He allowed himself a few moments to drag in a few tricky breaths into his lungs before sitting up with a struggle. The man who'd been _moments_ away from slitting his throat was back on his knees, arms behind his back as if nothing had happened.

"Amazing isn't he?" Richelieu swept passed Jude, over Charles on the floor. He threaded his fingers into the boy's hair and yanked his head back forcefully. He didn't fight the violent action, as his head snapped back, muscles strained in his neck as Richelieu's cold eyes bore into his.

"Who do you belong to, Charles?"

Jude's eyebrow shot up as a mutter of, "You, sir," fell from the boy's lips.

What had Richelieu done to him?

"That's right." Richelieu released his hair and turned back to Jude, "I don't believe I pay you to lie there. Move. It's time to prepare the a little welcoming party for our guests."

* * *

 

The flare of overhead lighting tore Athos away from the files on his desk. He glanced up, blinking uncomfortably in the sudden brightness, at Porthos in the doorway.

"How long 'ave you been sittin' in the dark?" Porthos asked. His body leant against the door frame, his head rested against the dark wood.

Athos frowned, "Dark?"

In response Porthos just nodded towards the large office window. Athos turned, realising with a start that darkness had descended to such a degree the streetlights were on at full strength.

"Oh..." Athos looked back to his friend, "I'm not sure."

"Why am I not surprised..?" Porthos shook his head. Athos looked down at his hands, for the first time noticing the brown folder clasped in his hand.

"What tha-" He began but Porthos cut across him, asking a question Athos would much rather not answer.

"How long have you been in here, Athos?"

Athos sighed as he rubbed his tired eyes with the heel of a hand, "Well that would depend on what time it is?"

Porthos glanced at his watch, "A little after 9."

Athos groaned, "Too long…"

"Thought so…." The big man pushed himself from the doorway and settled himself into the closest chair, which just happened to be Aramis', "What's so important it can't wait 'til morning?"

"Planning the next raid…" Athos held up a satilite photograph of a warehouse, "The place is rented under the same name. I've had surveillance in place for the last five days, we should be ready to move in tomorrow."

Porthos frowned, "Isn't that… Soon?"

"Why wait and give that bastard Richelieu longer to ruin people's lives?"

With a sigh Porthos gave a shrug and kicked his feet up onto Aramis' desk. Athos vaguely wondered what Aramis would say if he could see Porthos' dirty combat boots on his desk, the inevitable fight could be quite a welcome distraction.

"I guess… What's the plan?"

"That's what I'm working on," Athos flicked a few surveillance pictures across the small gap, onto Aramis' desk. Porthos gave them the once over, taking in the few familiar faces. Although he didn't know the names, a few of the men had cropped up in reconnaissance photographs from previous raids. Those few had just been lucky and avoided being arrested by sheer luck.

Not this time…

"I take it there ain' no sign of the King pin himself?" Porthos asked as he glanced up.

Athos just shook his head. This would be the seventh location of the Guard's which would be taken down, how many more places could there be for Richelieu to hide? How many more rats nests could there be in Paris..? Athos had a horrible suspicion he could conduct these raids until the day he died and not even scratch the surface of the city's grimy underworld.

Well, Athos decided with a sigh, if that was what it took, that was what he would be doing.

"Well… Ya never know…" Porthos tossed the photographs back to the desk, "We might get lucky!"

"Here's hoping…" Athos made a move to turn back to his plans for the upcoming raid, when an indignant shout erupted from the doorway, shattering any hope Athos had of getting more work done that evening.

"Treville said if I saw you here then to bounce your sorry ass home – Hey!" Aramis was completely distracted from his message by the sight of Porthos' current position, "Get your disgusting feet of my desk!" A make shift projectile of a pen lid hit Porthos square between the eyes. Aramis stormed into the room and shoved at the big man's feet, who huffed indignantly at the force.

With a roll of his eyes Athos gathered up his papers as his teammates began to bicker. He offered a goodnight, which went largely unnoticed as the squabble continued. Better to get out now before a full scale war broke out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be mad... 
> 
> There will be counselling in the blanket fort if required.
> 
> See you at the bottom!

Athos didn’t risk a glance at Ninon as the two teams piled out of the vans. It was three minutes to eight in the morning, three minutes before they were due to storm the warehouse. He didn’t need to look at her, despite the fact she had left his apartment a little before half six that morning. She always left with enough time to go home, change, and arrive at work alone, without so much as a mention of the night before. It was better that way. What they had wasn’t a relationship, they weren’t a couple, but it was what he needed. When guilt consumed him, ate away at his self-worth until nothing but loathing was left, Ninon forced him to switch off. Forced him to forget, at least for a little while.

But that had no bearing on work.

This was business.

“Get in positions. Sound off once you’re there!” Athos commanded through the coms.

He knew Aramis and Porthos would be following him, weapon in their hands, as Unit 5 began to confirm their positions.

“Ninon, 5, in position.”

“Renard, 5, in position.”

“Giles, 5, in position.”

“Felix, 5, in position.”

Their feet came to a stop at the side entrance, Athos closest, but could sense his brothers close behind.

“Aramis, 2, in position.”

“Porthos, 2, in position.”

His turn… Athos swallowed and glanced at his watch, watching the last few seconds tick away until…

“Athos, team lead, in position. Move in!”

They slammed though the three entrances to the warehouse as one.

The three Guards didn’t stand chance. The barrel of Athos’ gun was trained in the closest’s chest before his hand had even twitched toward his own weapon. The other two had more time to react, but Athos’ strong voice froze their bodies.

“Move a muscle towards any weapons and your friend will be dead before he hits the ground!”

He felt Aramis and Porthos fan out to his left side. A twinge in the back of his mind reminded Athos of the emptiness of his right. Where d’Artagnan should have been. They should have reverted back to old formations months ago, yet none of them had openly suggested the revision…

“Cuff them,” Athos ordered, stepping forward and out of his painful thoughts, “Follow me when you’re able.”

“Drop your guns and kick them over here,” Aramis focused on the first man, “And get on your knees. There’s a good man. Don’t force me to shoot you, it would be rather foolish.”

For a second it seemed as though the man might _actually_ be that thoughtless, but then the guns dropped to the concreate with a variety of clatters.

Carefully Aramis tugged a pair of cuffs from his belt. He shot a quick glance to their leader, who was stalking, gun raised, toward the stairs.

“Follow you where?”

The question make Athos pause, only to motion with his weapon toward the barren space, before his feet took off again.

“Look around you!” Athos called over his shoulder, “There’s nothing! They’re not guarding an empty warehouse. What are they hiding upstairs?”

* * *

 

The floorboards of the first floor creaked under Athos’ feet as he crept forward. The stairway led to a large room. At Athos’ best guest the room was the whole top floor of the warehouse, a huge expanse of bare, ill-cared for floorboards and peeling plaster walls. A single window, missing its pane of glass, cast the early day light into the otherwise dull room, dark shadows forming where the only brightness could not touch. Athos’ hunch, however, had been correct. Crates stood, stacked along two of the long walls. They were smaller than ones recovered in the past. If Athos had to guess? Drugs, not illegal arms.

He raised his hand, ready to activate the coms in his ear, when something _else_ caught his attention.

The creak of a floorboard, as loud as a gunshot, shattered the silence.

Every muscle in Athos’ body tensed. The noise, had it come from the stairs, could have easily been from Aramis following orders, but it had come from _inside_ the echoed room, toward the shadow covered corner.

“Who’s there?”

For a second his shout was met with silence. Athos began to wonder if the creak had somehow been imagined, but then it came again. This time it was definitely a footstep.

His fingers tightened their grip the handle of his weapon as the furthest shadow began to _move_. Move, and then stepped out into the weak morning light.

The figure was tall and lean, clothed in material so dark Athos could see how he had overlooked him on first glance. Every inch of skin was covered, down to balaclava which wrapped everything but his eyes. His hands were no exception, which made the silver glint of a knife stand out all the more.

A prickle of unease spread across Athos’ shoulders and down his spine. The other members of the Guard, not just in this warehouse but in every other raid, had been thugs, all muscle and firearms. Not necessarily slow witted but low skilled, putting up fights with sloppily, cheap moves. This man though?

Athos swallowed, watching the figure as he _stalked_ out of the shadows, his footwork light and skilled. Not military, not quite, but trained. _Well_ trained. Something, somewhere, tickled the back of Athos’ mind, but it was firmly ignored. He needed all his focus in this moment.

Athos’ eyes narrowed as the masked figure continued his slow circle towards him.

“Who are you?”

Not that Athos had honestly expected an answer. He wasn’t graced with one, only the continual, slow, prowl. He tried again.

“Your friends downstairs are all in cuffs.”

The man’s steps didn’t falter.

“You’ll never fight your way out of here.”

He was getting close, too close. Athos, left with no choice, raised his gun and aimed. Suddenly the figure wasn’t so slow anymore. A well-practiced arm shot out and his forced gun hand away with such violence the gun flew from Athos’ hand. It landed against the dusty floorboards and spun in circles away and out of reach. He raised his fists, ignoring the surprise of the skilled attack and only narrowly missing the knife thrust towards his shoulder. The knife came up again, swiping precariously close Athos’ cheek, forcing him to stumble backwards in escape. The figures’ attacks came fast and relentless, in a way Athos would have never expected from man of the Guard. Athos, as much as he loathed to admit it, was having trouble keeping up.

The knife glinted and flashed as it was brought down inches from Athos’ ear, his own punch to the gut only forcing the onslaught to pause for a moment. Athos staggered backward, but his opponent recovered quickly. Athos prepared for the next attack, but instead of fists, the figure crouched. A leg shot out and hooked around Athos’ ankle.

His leg was dragged from underneath him and Athos fell hard against atop his bad arm. Familiar pain burst from his reconstructed elbow. Athos let out a cry of pain as the figure descended violently. A sharp, heavy, elbow slammed into Athos’ stomach, forcing what little air he still had out of his lungs. The sharp steel found his cheek, as a strong forearm was shoved hard against Athos’ throat. His hand desperately found his assailant’s wrists, forcing them away with what little strength he had left. Between the pain in his arm and the violent shake of his lungs Athos couldn’t draw breath. Heavy drumming sounded in his ears as the man’s face loomed over him. The eyes of the masked man narrowed, flashing around the room before dragging themselves back to the man who was pinned on the floor. The eyes were dark slits, dull and lifeless, but ever so slightly… Something, but that thought was getting harder to hold onto as the edges of Athos’ eyes began darken.

Athos’ hold which was keeping the knife from slicing into the skin of his face was weakening. The black in his vision was getting wider, his sight narrowing into smaller and smaller circles.

The gunshot ripped through the air, finding its target with a gruff shout.

Suddenly the hold against Athos’ throat released, the heavy weight disappearing from his stomach. A cough exploded from the man as he rolled away and watched as the masked figure grasped his wounded shoulder.

“Aahh…”

That voice. Athos froze. No… It couldn’t be. He hadn’t heard that voice since…

_“Aahh…”His friend lay on the practice mat, Porthos bending over him with that annoying smirk he always got after besting someone._

_“You’re thinking too much. Just feel the fight, react, stop over analysing.”_

No. No… It wasn’t… Wasn’t possible…

“What the ‘ell is this?” Porthos growled from the door way, “Aramis!”

The figure tightened his grip on his wound as he backed up. The movement tugged up the dark material of his sweatshirt, revealing the tanned skin of a toned chest.

Porthos was shouting again, quickly joined by another voice, Aramis, but Athos wasn’t listening. The man’s far side was marred with thick, newly healed scars which were an angry flaming red, but that wasn’t what drew Athos’ gaze. On the other side sat a thin, white surgical scar. Although impossible to tell from a distance, it looked like the result of a gunshot wound.

The man continued to stumble backwards as the room was filled with shouts. Heavy dark boots landed next to Athos’ head. He tore his eyes away from the figure, up to Aramis’ expressionless face and raised gun.

“Stop, Stop or I’ll shoot!”

But the man didn’t stop. He instead he sped up towards his only exit; the window.

“Warned you –“

“No!”

Athos threw himself at Aramis’ legs, knocking the marksman of balance and to the floor as he fired. The bullet missed its target by a foot and buried itself in the pealing wall as d’Artagnan threw himself from the window.

Athos just blinked.

What on earth had just happened?

* * *

 

“I’d have known that voice anywhere!”

“Athos…”

“I hear it, every night. I could have picked it out from a crowd of a hundred men!”

“But Athos…”

“And a scar, right on his stomach, where he was shot!”

“You could find five men with a matching scar in the Garrison alone – A-Athos will you just _STOP_!”

But Athos didn’t stop. He continued his ransack of the office, looking for something and _clearly_ not finding it. Sick of be ignored Aramis stepped forward and grabbed the smaller man by his shoulders. Only then did Athos finally look at his friend, eyes ablaze of determination the likes Aramis hadn’t seen since… Well since the night of the explosion.

“Athos…” Aramis tried his best to keep his voice even, though his nerves were sorely frayed, “We buried d’Artagnan a year ago.”

“We buried a body.”

“Yes, d’Artagnan’s body!” Aramis released his leader’s shoulders, only for him to begin his search again.

Aramis turned to Porthos with look of pained exasperation. He had stayed by the door, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the argument unfold.

“What ya’ looking for, Athos?” He asked. Aramis gave his a glare for encouraging the man, which Porthos ignored.

“The autopsy reports of the bodies from the explosion. Lemay gave them to me at the time but I just stuffed away… I didn’t want to look but…” Athos’ voice trailed off as he tugged a brown file from a deep recesses of a draw. With a pleased mutter he sat down where he stood, avidly scanning the documentation.

Aramis shot yet another look of frustrated despair at Porthos, who just lowered himself to kneel at his leader’s side.

“What’s in the autopsy report?”

But Athos shook his head, “It’s not what’s in them...” Athos muttered as his finger ran along the typed paragraphs, “d’Artagnan…He had two possessions he cared about. Only two…”

“His pin…” Porthos noted, remembering the way their youngest had cleaned his fleur-de-lis religiously his is desk in the office, “And what else?”

Athos glance up from the typed sheets in his hand, “His wedding ring. The pin was left in his desk before the mission –“

“I know… We gave it to Constance, before the funeral, was the right thing to do -”

“-But where is his ring?” Athos pressed. He snapped the file with closed, waving it at Porthos, “Because there’s no mention of it in that body’s autopsy report! It wasn’t on the body. He wore the ring on a chain for the mission, did he not? Under his clothes – I bet he never took the thing off! So where is it?”

Porthos rubbed a calloused hand over his chin, “I don’t know… Maybe someone took it, thought it was worth money…”

“Someone took the time to steal the ring from around his neck _while_ the warehouse burned down around them?” Athos shook his head. He shoved himself up from the floor, Porthos and the file forgotten. He stalked back to his desk and grabbed his mobile.

Aramis’ eyes narrowed, watching Athos as he scrolled through his phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Constance. She’d want to know-“

But Aramis had reached his limit. Perhaps Porthos was willing to enable this kind of insane behaviour, but he was not. Not when it came to Constance. If Athos wanted to spout this insanity to them that was one thing, but Constance was quite another.

“Don’t you DARE!” Aramis grabbed the phone from his leader’s hand and hurled it into the corner of the room.

Athos rounded on him, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What am I doing?” Aramis puffed out a breath, which sounded worryingly close to a growl, “What the hell are _you_ doing?”

“Constance would want –“

“You have no IDEA what Constance would want!” Aramis snarled, “You have no idea because you cut her out of your life a YEAR ago!”

“Aramis…” Porthos warned but his friend was too far gone.

“No, tell me Athos! Where you were when I drove to their flat and told Constance we lost him? Where were you at the funeral? Where have you been for the past year when she’s needed _us_? Tell me Athos, because you suddenly seem so sure you know what she wants despite the fact you abandoned her when she needed you most!”

“She would still want to know that d’Artagnan is –“

“d’Artagnan is _dead_!” Aramis’ voice exploded throughout the room, his patience for their leader finally shattering, “I carried his coffin! I _watched_ it disappear into the ground. You didn’t see him, you didn’t _hear_ him! d’Artagnan is dead and your guilt will not bring him back!”

Silence descended in the office. Athos clenched his jaw together, looking like he was preparing for Aramis to strike him in the face. In the end, what was said was just as hurtful.

“If you want to believe your own fairy-tale then go right ahead but you are _not_ going to get Constance’s hopes up just to break her heart all over again.”

It might have felt better to have just been punched. Athos swallowed, ignoring the bile which threatened to rise up his throat.

“Right…”

The word was small, final, before Athos pushed past his friend and out of the office.

With a sigh Aramis dropped into the closest office chair, air rushing out of him in a huff.

“I didn’t mean for that to sound like… I mean… d’Artagnan’s death wasn’t…”

“His fault,” Porthos finished the sentence after words seem to fail his friend, “I know…”

Aramis sagged, realised just how deep his words must have hit. Perhaps his words had been illplaced, but Athos needed to hear them. He wasn’t thinking clearly. It wasn’t healthy for him to cling onto a hope which they all new was pointless.

Still, the conversation had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Porthos settled a large, comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder with a sad smile. Aramis lent into the warmth, grateful for the touch.

“It needed said…” Aramis sighed, speaking to himself as much as Porthos.

The big man nodded sadly, knowing that, even if Aramis hadn’t said it as tactfully as possible, the essence of the words were necessary.

“True…” Porthos, offered his friend a sad smile, “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy ta hear…”

* * *

 

Athos thought about going home and opening the bottle of red wine which sat waiting on his counter top, but it was barely midday. Not that the time would normally stop him from a wine when he normally got like this, but he would be missed if he left the Garrison so early on a raid day.

So instead home Athos found himself in the sparring studio, stripped down to his undershirt and combat trousers, mounting a savage attack on the practice bag.

_If you want to believe your own fairy-tale…_ That’s what Aramis had said… In the face of everything Athos had said, every piece of evidence which had seemed to slot into place…

A fairy-tale…

Could it just be a fairy tale? Could he be wrong?

In the moment he had been sure. The moment the exhale of pain had come from the assailant, the scar on the tanned skin of the figure’s stomach… But then, how close had he been to unconsciousness? His vision had been blacking out, his mind hadn’t even registered Porthos’ and Aramis’ arrival… How sure could he really be?

With a growl of frustration Athos’ clenched fists slammed against the practice bag, all his pent up furry burning out in a flash. His forehead came down to rest on the plasticy fabric a moment later.

It had sounded _so_ like him… The voice. It _sounded_ like d’Artagnan. He’d heard his voice almost every day over a two year period, he _knew_ what the boy had sounded like… But maybe that was the problem, as Aramis had so helpfully pointed out. Had his guilt really summoned those memories and convinced his mind he had seen…

Athos swallowed, feeling suddenly quite sick. The gut rotting, all-encompassing guilt did often take over his mind, but he only allowed such in the quiet moment, the still moments. The moments alone in bed or the still of the morning… Not work. Athos kept it together at work. He was a professional. He worked as a team, _lead_ units into situations which could be fatal if not handled correctly. If his guilt was going to get in the way of that, what if it was going to compromise the safety of those who trusted him?

Well it had, Athos realised with a sinking feeling. He had let a member of the Guard escape because he had let his imagination, his _guilt,_ get the better of him. He had _tackled_ Aramis to stop him from taking a shot.

The guilt was already effecting his judgement. He should tell Treville, tell him to put Ninon in charge of the raids. If his guilt was finally over running his senses, twisting his imagination until he couldn’t trust himself…

With the fight gone, Athos found himself drained. He allowed his knees to buckle and slid into a pile on the gym floor.

_A fairy-tale…_

Athos shuddered. His eyes landed on his discarded suit jacket, the knowledge of what was in the breast pocket burning a hole in his chest. Before he lost his nerve Athos hooked the dark fabric over with his foot and shook the small bottle of pills from the pocket. The label was had faded over the last twelve months, the dark stains which had been caused by red wine now a murky brown. Athos ran his thumb nail carefully across the security lid, the plastic barrier promising an unopened canister still intact.

Because he hadn’t. Not yet.

The Codeine pills had been tempting, _oh_ so tempting, but Athos hadn’t yet opened the bottle of pills. He’d been close more time than he could count, in those dark moments when the voices had screamed murder inside his head, he’d been only moments away. But every time, somehow, Ninon had been there, or Treville, or his phone had buzzed or –

Every time there had been a distraction.

And oh Lord did Athos need one now. Because the guilt was constricting his heart, tightening around his throat. d’Artagnan’s face was looming accusingly, followed quickly by Aramis’.

_d’Artagnan is dead and your guilt will not bring him back…_

He needed them to stop, just for a moment. He just needed silence… He needed…

Athos pressed his nail forward and snapped the safety seal in two, bending his thumb ever so slightly to pop the lid.

A cough echoed out from behind him, which made the man on the floor jump. Athos’ hands fumbled to close the canister, the orange tube slipping from his fingers. It fell to the mat with a thud as Athos glanced over the intruder.

Porthos leant against the wall, eyes focused on his friend with sad contemplation.

“Thought I’d find you here…”

Athos just offered a half-hearted shrug.

Porthos sighed and pushed himself of the wall. He crossed the room quickly and crouched down in front of that.

“Treville called,” A comforting hand finding his shoulder. The gentle, kind touch made Athos want to cry, but instead he just tugged his gaze from his friend to the window, pretending to be interested in the blackbird on the window ledge.

“Are you oka-“ Porthos tried, but Athos cut him off.

“What did the Captain say?”

Porthos blinked, but couldn’t be surprised at his friend’s sidestep of the question. After so many years at each other’s side he knew to what lengths Athos would go to in order to avoid talk of emotions.

“The men arrested in this mornings’ raid have been processed and are being held in the Bastille Prison. He wants you to interview them.”

“Right….” Athos, once it was safe, pulled his gaze back to his friend, “Of course. And you will be coming?”

Porthos nodded, “Of course. He said the report of the raid can wait, would rather, eh, all three of us to go.”

The reports. Athos swallowed, unnerved by the reminder of what would be written down, of the truths which would come out and be handed over for their commander to read.

“Well, we should go then,” Athos swallowed. He knelt and began shrugging his outer clothes back into place. Once he was fully clothed forced himself back to his feet but Porthos’ voice again gave him pause.

“I’ve finished my report,” Porthos spoke quietly, “Aramis too.”

“Oh?”

“Yea, after you left we… Well you should know… The masked man, he didn’t make it into the final cut for Treville… Just so, ya’ know, yours matches…”

Athos nodded. He wanted to say thank you, but somehow the words got stuck in his throat. Instead he just offered a curt nod and headed for the door.

With everything going on Athos hadn’t noticed the emptiness of his left pocket, the pill canister abandoned in the corner of the combat gym.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the reunion of sorts! Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, your feedback means so much ^^
> 
> Anyways, on with the chapter! Hope you enjoy! ^^

There was something about the Bastille which made Athos’ skin crawl; a prison, cold and bare, full of locked doors and windowless walls. Athos had seen many of them in his time within the Musketeers. Prisons and detention cells, they all had the same air about them. But the Bastille was different. Maybe, Athos wondered as he showed his government ID and was buzzed through the doors, it was the calibre of prisoner. Because the Bastille was no ordinary prison. The inmates housed within it’s walls were those deemed unsuitable for general populous. The prisoners he planned to see weren’t necessarily Bastille materiel, but the prison had a range of single cells which the Musketeers commandeered if their own cells over crowded or deemed unsuitable.

Still… The place gave Athos the most uncomfortable feeling – and he got to leave at the end of the meeting.

“How many did we arrest this time”? Athos asked as the trio was buzzed through one of the secure doors. Aramis made a big show of checking paperwork from Ninon. Athos knew full well was just an excuse not to look him in the eye, Aramis had been avoiding it since they left the Garrison.

“Eight in all,” Aramis flicked through the intake notes, complete with finger prints and mug shots, “All have various records. Drugs, assault charges, one’s attempted murd – wait…” The tall man frowned, feet freezing.

Athos raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“The last guy on this list…”Aramis passed over a single sheet of type face, “Look.”

Athos held the single sheet between Porthos’ body and his own so they could both see.

Doctor Peter Deniau was a short, balding, middle aged man with no priors or record to speak of. The look of sheer terror on the man’s face in the mugshot sent Porthos’ eyebrows shooting towards his curly hair.

“ _That_ guy was arrested in the raid?”

“Caught by Ninon’s team while we were, eh, upstairs.” Aramis scratched the back of neck.

“But what the hell was someone like that doin’ in there?” Porthos demanded, stabbing a finger at the mugshot.

Athos took hold of the sheet, decision made, “I say we ask him. Porthos have him brought to interview room one?”

The words were out of his mouth before Athos realised his mistake. Porthos strode of to find a security guard, leaving Aramis awkwardly by his side, pretending to read the rest of the prisoner intake forms.

They continued in an awkward silence to the interview room they’d been offered for interrogations. It turned out to be a bare room. Grey walls with a metal table, fixed to the floor, and matching chairs. A thick ring was embedded into one side of table, Athos wondered ideally how many criminals had had their hands chained there. He shrugged of his dark jacket and tossed it over the back of one chair before Aramis awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Athos, about earlier…”

“This is hardly the appropriate place.”

Aramis sighed, “I just wanted… Look, you have no reason to feel guilty about d’Artagnan’s death.”

D’Artagnan…. Athos suppressed a flinch. He _couldn’t_ think about that right now. Not with this morning so freshly seared in his mind. The interrogations would require focus, letting old ghosts hang over him would only serve as a hindrance.

So Athos just turned his back, voice forcefully impassive.

“You told me nothing but the truth, Aramis. There’s no reason to back track now.”

“Athos I was just _worried_ about you! The last thing I want is for you to get your hopes up and –“

The door buzzed open, cutting the pair’s conversation short. A squat, terrified looking man was shoved through the door, dressed in the grey scrubs of an inmate with his wrists shackled tightly together. Wide, little, eyes darted round the room, searching each face for a potential ally. When he found none, panic spread across his features. Porthos appeared a moment later, steering the man by the shoulders towards the awaiting seat.

“Now,” Porthos’ voice rumbled through the room. Athos supressed a smirk as the inmate actually baulked.

“We are three _big_ men. Bigger then you. Between this room and the outside world there are about a dozen locked doors and armed guards. If I decide not to lock you to the table, can I trust you to sit there _nicely_ and have some manners?”

Porthos pressed firmly on the little man’s shoulder, effectively forcing him into the awaiting chair. He took the terrified silence as an agreement and looked up to his friends.

“All yours.”

And just like that Athos and Aramis fell into their roles. Argument be damned, they began to move around each other in a well practiced dance. Interrogation.

Without looking Aramis passed Athos the notes which Athos scanned, although had a fair idea what he was looking for. He took his sweet time, finger running along the notes with little nods here and there. The man fidgeted, his eyes switching nervously between the men in front of him, waiting for someone to speak. It amused Athos to see just how far they could be pushed. When the inmate looked to be at breaking point Athos finally tossed the notes own onto the table.

“How much does a medical degree from Stanford cost these days, Doctor Deniau?” Athos asked, an air of ice lacing through his words.

“Upwards of 50 thousand dollars, easily,” Aramis answered without giving the doctor a chance, “But then, surely any amount of debt is worth saving lives, can’t put a price on that…”

“Well of course,” Athos agreed and tossed the notes carelessly to the desk, “That’s true. Saving lives is a worthy profession. Can’t do that from prison though.”

There was a terrified moan from the man in the chair, which Aramis promptly ignored.

“All that debt just to rot away surrounded by rapists and murderers. What a waste…”

The moan turned into a whimper as the man tore at what little hair he had left.

“But I haven’t –“

“Done anything wrong?” Athos drawled, sounding bored, “You were caught in the middle of a black market raid. An educated professional in Richelieu’s pocket….” He leaned down, hands planted heavily on the metal table. The mask of boredom slid from Athos’ face, revealing a twist of sinister satisfaction.

“The judge will take 30 seconds before handing down at least fifteen years. Not to mention you can kiss your medical licence goodbye.”

The man looked close to tears, a fact which gave Athos a sick pleasure as he shoved violently away in disgust, as if the conversation was over.

The dance shifted towards Aramis. It was his turn.

Unlike Athos, the other man took a seat at the table, a look of sincerity tugging at his eyes, emphasising the fine lines which had appeared over the last year.

“Fifteen years is a long time…” Aramis offered a nod towards the golden band which wrapped around the Doctor’s left ring finger, “You’re married… Got kids?"

Deniau nodded, pudgy fingered shaking as they rubbed along his brow.

“Twin boys, they’re 8.”

Aramis nodded, mouth twisting in pity, “They’ll be 23 by the time you’re out. That’s a long time to be without a dad. Crucial years you’re going to miss. Secondary school, dates, driving… You’ll miss their graduation.”

And that did it. Deniau broke. With a sob his head fell into his hands, shoulders shuddering under the weight of the situation. Athos cast a disgusted look toward the shaking figure, while Aramis kept a level gaze of quiet sympathy.

“I didn’t –“

“We don’t have time for some made up sob story!” Athos spat. His hand landed on Aramis’ shoulder, who with a sad sigh nodded in agreement.

“We’re not wasting anymore time on someone with nothing to offer.”

Aramis paused, half way out his seat as if a thought had only just occurred to him.

“Unless of course,” Aramis’ gaze settled on Deniau, who was trying desperately to control his breathing which was quickly manifesting into hiccups, “You _did_ have something to offer?”

The silence in the room was punctuated only by the small man’s violent hiccups. Athos and Aramis were careful to keep up their roles, even though they were both holding their breath. Aramis couldn’t help but wonder if they had guessed wrong. Maybe the poor sod in front of them knew nothing. If that was the case? Well then they needed to call a halt to this pointless fishing expedition and focus on something useful.

Aramis was about to give up when Deniau spoke, the words dragged with a croak from inside his dry throat.

“He’ll kill me.”

And there it was! Aramis had to hold back a grin. Proof there was _something_ worth hearing. Clearly Athos thought the same thing as he jumped straight into the next phase of the interrogation. Fear.

“Do you know what will happen to you in prison?” Athos spat, whirling back to face the man, “Men like you don’t last 10 minutes. No one in there cares about your degree or your job. They’ll take one look at the fat, coward, in front of them, and rip you limb from limb.”

Aramis allowed a few moments for Athos’ words to fester inside Deniau’s stomach, before he leant forward.

“If you _did_ have information of use…” Aramis mused, his voice light compared to Athos, “Well it would look good for you. A judge would be impressed by your willingness to help with the investigation, could cut your time served considerably.”

But Deniau shook his head, desperation etched into the lines around his face, “You _don’t_ understand. Richelieu will kill anyone who crosses him. I never even _wanted_ to work for him! I’m not part of the Guard – I’m not one of them! I just –“

“We can protect you,” Aramis could feel Athos tense at his side, ready to threaten again, so got in there first, “Our boss has the pull to do that, but only for those who help us. If not? You’ll be on your own…”

Aramis shrugged, leaving the decision hanging in the air heavily between them. Deniau had no pokerface, and was clearly waring with indecision. His features, blotchy from tears, twisted with anxiety. Silence settled in the small interview room, but after about thirty seconds Athos shattered it, his patience finally dissipated.

“We are clearly wasting our time. Porthos take him back to his cell. I’m taking bets on how long he’ll last once he’s moved to gen pop in the Châtelet.”

It was Porthos’ heavy hands on Deniau’s shoulders, ready to pull him up and away, which finally seemed to stir him out of the silence.

“Wait!”

Athos’ hand raised, freezing Porthos’ actions. He arched an eyebrow, indicating that Deniau should continue.

“You can protect me..?” Deniau phrased it like a question, “And you’ll talk to the judge about his sentence?”

“You’re in no position to make demands,” Athos’ lip curled, “Give us the information and I’ll _decide_ if it is worth anything.”

The doctor looked up, gaze wobbly as if on the verge of tears again. His hands tore at each other, scratching red marks into the pale skin, as if that would somehow calm his nerves.

“Richelieu…” The man’s eyes scrunched closed, and sucked in a deep breath, “He doesn’t visit any of the Guard facilities anymore, not since that first raid a year ago. You can keep raiding brothels and warehouses all you want but you won’t find him. He has a facility, completely separate from any other Guard operation. There aren’t any ties between it and the other sites. He knows he’s safe there, that you won’t find it or him no matter how hard you look.”

“All very interesting,” Athos sighed as if bored, “And tell me why this information is any use to us?”

“Because,” Deniau swallowed hard, realising once he went down this road there would be no going back, “Because I’ve been there. I know where he’s hiding.”

* * *

 

“Olivier de La Fère is behind this?” Richelieu’s pale fingers crumpled around the photograph in his hand. The picture of Athos was grainy, snapped during that morning’s raid. Taken from a neighbouring window, the man hadn’t even known he was being watched. Richelieu balled the photograph up and ground it under the heel of his expensive dress shoe.

“His brother should have just killed him when he had the chance!”

Jude swallowed, clutching a duplicate photograph to his side. Being the barer of bad news when it came to Richelieu was often a health hazard. Today though, the old man turned his smouldering rage towards the other man, who hung heavily from his from his tied wrists. Jude only shot quick, awkward glances in his direction. Clearly, he had interrupted some kind of punishment, if the dark welts along his ribs were anything do go by. Dried blood from a shallow graze crusted against his good shoulder and purple swelling of bruises marred the healthy skin and snaked it’s way across the bare chest, disappearing when faced with the disfigured, scarred mess of his left side. With the boy shirtless Jude could see the extent of the mutilation for the first time. The sight made him flinch. His left arm, his chest, the curling scar across his cheekbone and around his eye…

Suddenly Jude felt quite ill.

Poor kid….

“And you!” Richelieu spat. His hand shot out and shoved the figure hard against his injured shoulder, earning a low groan as the boy’s whole bodyweight was placed on his wrists, “You let him escape!”

The boy’s head lulled against his chest. He wasn’t unconscious, Jude could see his eyes moving, but not present. Perhaps the boy had finally managed to block out the pain, maybe he’d learned to drift?

Clearly Richelieu had noticed too, because his nostrils flared in annoyance. He would not be ignored. His hands dug into his suit breast pocket, when he pulled back something small and silver glinted in his fingers.

“Next time…” The old man flicked his wrist and the zippo ignited. A flame, tall and yellow, hovered above the silver lighter.

The reaction from the boy was immediate. His eyes locked onto the tiny flame, a guttural cry ripping from his throat. He wrenched back, desperate to get away from the fire.

Jude’s heart clenched. The kid sounded like a wild animal caught in a trap, his actions getting more violent as Richelieu approached his unblemished side, lighter still outstretched.

Richelieu raised his voice over the boy’s animalistic cries, “Next time you see Olivier de La Fère, you kill him!”

The lighter was brought to the skin of the boy’s healthy arm, burning into the soft tissue of his underarm. The cries turned into shrieks as the body buckled. Head thrown back, the kid’s eyes were far away, trapped inside the memory of whatever had given him those scars.

“You will kill him Charles!” Richelieu growled, moving the lighter to a fresh patch of skin, “La Fère will be dead!”

The next few moments, overwhelmed by the man’s pain filled screams, seemed to last a lifetime. Just as Jude felt stretched to breaking point, Richelieu drew the zippo back. The cries died almost immediately, replaced instead with heavy, heaving breathing.

“Tell me Charles,” Richelieu stepped forward to the boy’s ear, “Next time you see La Fère. What will you do..?”

There was a beat of silence. Jude wondered if Richelieu had gone too far. Perhaps the boy had shut down, perhaps he had shattered beyond repair.

But then…

“Kill him, Sir.”

“Excellent,” Richelieu turned on his heel, stalking out of the room. He clicked his fingers, indicating for Jude to follow. But the boy hesitated. His eyes glanced back to the figure, to Charles. His body was shuddering, breaths coming heavily, a nervous quake as he tried to block out the pain.

“Should I let him down..?”

Richelieu didn’t even turn around.

“Leave him there. Maybe a night chained up will teach him for letting his prey escape…”

If he’d heard them, the figure didn’t react to the words. Richelieu swallowed awkwardly and forced a nod, following the older man up the stairs and away from their prisoner.

When he made it up to the ground floor Richelieu was wiping his hands a paper towel, as if he hadn’t been torturing the boy only minutes before.

“The men who were taken, any of them know about this place?”

Jude shook his head, “None. We lost six Guards, along with two groupies. There’s no way for them to find us here…”

“Good…” Richelieu dug a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it with the same zippo that had been used to torment the poor kid. Jude tried his best not to look at it. Quickly the cigar was lit and a cloud of smoke floated out around the old man’s face. Jude watched as his eyes narrowed slightly, obviously mulling over the men they’d, yet again, lost.

He didn’t envy La Fere…

* * *

 

The argument had been forgotten in light of the new information. Athos and Aramis worked shoulder to shoulder as they researched he address Deniau had given up. It transpired to be a building in a quiet street on the outskirts of Paris. The man hadn’t been lying when he’d said the facility had no ties to the Guard. Porthos was doing some extra digging, ensuring there were no connections they had missed, while Aramis and Athos worked on ariel maps and blueprints of the area.

d’Artagnan had once said that Richelieu, being the rat that he was, would never enter a building when he didn’t have a bolt hole. Athos was determined for find every single one. The man was not going to get away again.

Aramis ran a long finger across a row of windows which faced the target house.

“If there are tunnels they’ll likely let out in a neighbouring building. If we place our best snipers in this building and,” The finger jumped to the row of buildings behind, “these ones, we’ll have those exits covered.”

“You’re the best sniper the Musketeers have,” Athos shot him a sideways look, “I assume don’t mean yourself?”

Aramis, before he joined the Musketeers, had been the best shot in the French army. It was one of the reasons he’d come to the attention of Treville had been offered a place in the Musketeers. As a Marksman he had worked alone during his first year in the organisation, before he’d been forced into a team when Unit 2 had been formed. Even now, in the same way Porthos was on occasion pulled from the unit to run endurance training, Aramis was pulled to put new recruits through their shooting skills.

Aramis’ eyes sparked a little dangerously, “If you think I’m missing a chance to take down Richelieu you’re very much mistaken… There was a few newbies who I noticed a couple of months back. Great shots. Treville will lend them to us. He wants Richelieu as much as us.”

Athos nodded, “Didn’t think you would willingly miss the fun…”

“Never.”

Athos shook his head, turning back to the plans. His hand raised up to his forehead, a finger running tiredly over his face. This day had turned into a never ending one.

“So road blocks a in a mile radius, snipers, three units of Musketeers on the ground…” Athos let out a long breath, “The man’s not getting away from us this time.”

“Everything is accounted for,” Aramis nodded, although something in his voice made Athos look up with a frown. There was clearly a second part to Aramis’ words which he was hesitating about.

“Apart from..?” Athos prompted.

His friend shifted a little uncomfortably, his eyes firmly fixed on the maps, away from Athos.

“Everything is accounted for,” Aramis agreed, “Apart from the man in the mask…”

Athos tensed. Memories from that morning clouded his vision. That scarred stomach, the dark eyes… That quiet snarl of pain which he could have sworn had been…

No! Not again. Athos shook his head to rid himself of those dangerous thoughts.

“What about him?”

“I just,” Aramis finally turned to look at his friend. Those dark eyes were sad, which, to be honest, Athos found harder to deal with than the previous anger, “Athos, if that man is there, I need to know you aren’t going to freeze again. I need to hear that you are onside, that, if it comes to it, you’ll take the shot.”

Despite their argument, despite all the reason inside his brain, Athos still hesitated. He _knew_ d’Artagnan was dead. He did know that, but still something inside him battled the idea of finally shooting the man.

But it couldn’t, _couldn’t_ , be d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan was dead. He’d been dead for a year. Athos wasn’t going to let his guilt ruin this operation. This could be their only chance to get Richelieu. If this failed the man would disappear and they’d never catch him.

This was their only shot.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Athos swallowed, ignoring the traitorous part of his mind which still urged him to reconsider, “He won’t get the better of me this time.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... I hope you guys are ready for this...
> 
> Enjoy!

The raid was set for the early hours of the following morning. If Athos had gotten his own way they would have stormed the place the moment the plan had been formed, but Treville had put his foot down. Unit five, as their Captain had pointed out, needed to be rested and ready for their operation and had insisted the three rest for at least a few hours. It had only been the dispatch of two members of Unit 4 to watch the building for any sign of Richelieu, which had caused Athos to back down. If only for a few hours. He and Porthos had commandeered sofas in the off duty room, while Aramis had elected to go home. He swore it was to shower, but it hadn’t escaped Athos’ notice that the man hadn’t entered the off duty room since the quarantine had been lifted. Really, considering how close Aramis had come to losing his life that room, it was hardly surprising. Athos hadn’t pressed the issue.

But by 0700 hours they were ready. Aramis had rejoined them, although had disappeared not long after to brief oversee the set up his band of four snipers. Athos saw to the rest of the Musketeers assigned to the raid. All in all there were 14 agents involved, 18 if you counted the gunmen and over 40 if you included the uniformed officers who were to set up road blocks. Athos had never been in charge of an operation this large and, if he had a spare corner of his brain, he would be panicking about it. But as it was he was entirely focused on ensuring every agent on the raid team had a photograph of their prime target and bullet proof vests in place. Once he was satisfied, Athos had moved out with the first round of agents and left Porthos to send out the rest.

By 0720 everyone was in place. Aramis was back at his unit’s side, after instructing (threatening) the other marksmen. He offered Athos a tight smile and pat on the shoulder as all fourteen agents sounded off in their ears. Unit 2 were pressed against an alley door, a member of unit 6 behind them who would be remaining outside to cover the exit.

Athos swallowed, internally ticking off each member of the raid team.

Porthos’ voice muttered his sound off, followed by Aramis… Only one person left now.

“Athos, Team Lead, in position. Move in!”

The crash resounded through the small building as every entrance was stormed as one.

* * *

 

“They’ve found us!” Richelieu shoved Jude into the office and slammed the dead bolt across the reinforced door. He could _hear_ the footsteps thundering around them, shouts of the other Guards who were being caught by surprise and having cuffs snapped on their wrists. Well that couldn’t be helped, but Richelieu would be damned if he was about to be arrested. The door might slow them down, but there was no way it would keep them out indefinitely.

“You told me no one taken knew of this place!” Richelieu spat. He grabbed the nearest object to hand, by chance a mobile phone, and threw it violently at Jude’s head. This time he wasn’t fast enough to dodge. The handset hit him hard, cracking against his cheekbone.

“They didn’t!” Jude clutched his face. The throb of his face hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to the hammering footsteps all around them, “There are five Guards who know about this place, and they’re HERE!”

“Then _how_ have they found us?” Instead of sending more objects flying at Jude, Richelieu turned and dug into his desk. He pulled out two hand guns and tucked about his person, muttering to himself all the while. Suddenly his hands stilled and a glare of ice was turned on Jude.

“You said ‘ _groupies’_ were arrested.” Something curled around inside his voice which made Jude shudder, “Who?”

“I… I don’t…” Jude couldn’t stop the quake in his voice, “A girlfriend of someone, maybe two? And some doctor who was seeing to a stab –“

“Doctor Denieu was arrested and didn’t _tell_ me?” Richelieu snapped forward. His thin elbow smacked hard into the younger man’s chest, making him stumble back into a wall. The cold metal of a gun barrel shoved against Jude’s forehead. The man let out a whimper, trying to flinch away from the weapon. With his back against the wall there was nowhere to go.

“I didn’t know he knew – I didn’t know he’d been here –“

“You didn’t think to _ask_!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t know! Richelieu please, _please_ I didn’t know!” Jude’s eyes opened, silently pleading as the barrel grounded against his temple.

“I’m sorry too…” Richelieu let out a sigh. The shot exploded around the little room and Jude’s body crumpled, like a puppet who’s strings had snapped. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Richelieu stepped back, wiping the blood from his gun against the body’s shirt.

There was no time for pause. The shouts were getting closer, footsteps thundering towards him. He needed protection, a cover for his escape. With Jude, well, indisposed, there was only one other option. He crossed the room in a few short strides and threw open the door to the basement. Lucky that the boy had been let down a few hours ago…

“Charles! Looks like you have a chance to redeem yourself!”

* * *

 

Three arrests, no Richelieu… Athos was about ready to punch something. Porthos was charged with overseeing the arrests, Aramis with cataloguing a haul of controlled substances found in store room. With every exit still covered, Athos was completely unwilling to give up. Richelieu was here, he _had_ to be here! There had been nothing from the marksmen who were still in position, he _had_ to be somewhere.

He turned, hand attempting to turn a handle which refused to budge. A locked door, the _only_ locked door he’d so far come across. It could promising. Athos knew better than to attempt to force it with his shoulder, but two well placed shots at the lock and a forceful kick saw the door swing open.

Weapon raised, Athos stepped slowly through the door. His feet had barefuly cleared the threshold when he heard the sharp snap of wood on wood. The door shut behind him and Athos whirled around, coming face to face with the man he’d spent the last year hunting. Richelieu stood a few feet away, no weapon of any kind on show.

“Oh, Olivier…” Richelieu’s face twisted into a unnerving smile which didn’t even come close to his eyes, “I was so hoping it would be you…”

The urge to shoot the old man on the spot was almost overwhelming. How many lives had this man destroyed? How many families had been torn apart? How many lives had been cut short? Athos’ fingers twitched, urging just one _little_ squeeze. He deserved it.

But then, Athos knew he would be no better than Richelieu. No better than the murderer who had stolen his friend away.

“It’s Athos, but I’m glad I haven’t disappointed,” Athos spat the words out as he ignored his murderous temptations, “Come quietly, Richelieu. It’s over. The Guard is over.”

This seemed almost easy. One unarmed man against a building full of agents. Richelieu didn’t stand a chance.

Although, if that were true, why was the old man still smirking?

“Tell me, Olivier,” Richelieu took a step forward, Athos’ weapon following his target in a smooth motion, “I heard there’s a grave, do you still visit? Even a year on?”

Cold ice bled out across Athos’ shoulders. He couldn’t mean… Richelieu had to be baiting him. Reminding him about the friend he’d lost to send him into a rage, to make him sloppy.

It was working…

“I’ve heard it hurts to lose a pet,” Richelieu’s eyes flashed dangerously, “A lap dog…”

And Athos snapped. He lunged forward, forcing Richelieu against the closest wall with his forearm rammed against his throat. The gun pressed into the old man’s shoulder and it was _oh_ so tempting to use it.

“One reason…” Athos’ voice was low, tickling across the man’s cheek, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you!”

The smirk he was met with was not one you’d expect from someone with a gun pressed against them. Richelieu’s eyes shone, as if he’d been waiting for a moment like this for months.

“Look behind you…” Richelieu’s gaze slid past Athos and over his left shoulder. They focused on something, his face twisting in a sick, satisfied, sneer, “Charles, if you could please.”

W-What?

Athos’ mouth opened, but a hand seized his shoulder and wrenched him backward before he could speak. Richelieu let out a laugh as Athos was tossed against the opposite wall. His head bounced hard against the plaster, drawing out a curse of pain, although he managed to stay on his feet.

“Olivier… I believe you’ve met my good friend…”

Athos shook his head, fighting to focus his eyes after the knock. The blurriness reseeded as a tall, lean figure, stalked towards him.

Air turned to concrete in his lungs.

It wasn’t… It _couldn’t_ be possible! Aramis’ words thundered through his mind, a foghorn of the truth hammering behind his eyes.

‘ _d’Artagnan is dead!’_

But there was no mask this time. There was no room for his guilt to morph the figure in front of him.

The figure bent down, a scarred, leathered hand hauling Athos away from the wall and towards the face he had lost a year ago.

“d’Art…”

But the boy didn’t flinch. Athos drank in the familiar features, of the face which had haunted his thoughts and churned his guilt. His hair, instead of the bun of dark, sleek stands, which Athos remembered, was grimy, matted, and lay limply against his face. The scar, red and rough, which curled up and around his left eye like a hook, was alarming, but not as much as his eyes. Athos had seen the boy in different facets of his life and seen his eyes to match it. When they’d first met stress and defiance had twisted his brown eyes, a desire to survive had led to a guarded and untrustworthy gaze. But within his apprenticeship Athos had watched a change. He’d observed d’Artagnan eyes swell with his sharp wit, a stubborn streak which came from passion and a fierce protectiveness of those he loved.

Now though? Fear shuddered through Athos’ chest as d’Artagnan tugged him body towards his face.

Those were the same eyes, the same dark brown, same slight squint as they concentrated, but they were empty. No light, no spark. No humour or even defiance… There was… Nothing…

Time, which had almost stilled as Athos had mapped out the features of a friend he used to know, seemed to snap back into place as he was thrown, violently, backward.

Athos attempted to stay upright, but his feet caught on what he realised, with sick horror, was a dead body. His body tumbled back against the wall, his eyes never once leaving his friend as he stalked towards him.

“I realise you have much to catch up on,” Richelieu called from somewhere behind d’Artagnan’s towering frame, “I’d hate to get in the way of that... “

Athos shoved hard against the wall, and forced himself back to his feet, just in time to see Richelieu disappear toward a side door.

“Kill him Charles!”

“No-“ Athos could _feel_ Richelieu slipping through his fingers. A year of work, a year of raids and arrests and –

But d’Artagnan was closing in again, his hand clenched into tight fists. Athos’ gun weighed heavily in his own. What had been the promise he’d made to Aramis? That the masked figure wouldn’t distract him from Richelieu again..?

Well that was a promise he’d no longer be able to keep.

“d’Artagnan…” The name felt odd on his tongue, memories exploding like a taste he hadn’t experienced in years, “d’Artagnan it’s me.”

His footsteps didn’t falter.

“d’Artagnan we’re-“ This time, when d’Artagnan attempted a punch, Athos blocked it and spun out of the way. This time, the fight would go differently, because Athos _knew_ how d’Artagnan had fought. Hell, he had _trained_ him. He knew d’Artagnan’s style, had sparred countless times over his training. This would be just like those times.

Except completely different.

“We’re friends!”

d’Artagnan kept coming, the assaults quick and constant. Athos could almost _map_ out d’Artagnan’s moves. The attempted sweep of his legs, so quick and cat like it had to have been taught be Aramis. The use of elbow and knees, which spoke of street brawls had Porthos’ signature scrawled all over it. The hand to hand combat, a carbon copy of that taught in basic training which Athos had shown him… It was like fighting all of Unit 2 at once. It was a tirade.

“You _know_ me!” Athos, for the smallest of moments, locked eyes with the younger man, “d’Artagnan! Look at me-“

Finally d’Artagnan landed a hit. A fist cracked against Athos’ windpipe, forcing a pause in his blocks which is was all the opening d’Artagnan needed. Athos’ foot was swept away, and suddenly he was falling. He hit the concrete, hip first, followed by shoulder. Pain shot through the bones but there wasn’t time to worry about that.

“We worked together, fought together!” Athos shouted, pain giving his words a hard edge, “Two years I was by your side, I was at your wedding! Do you remember _none_ of that?”

A glint of light flashed at d’Artagnan’s side, drawing Athos’ gaze. The knife, the same knife as the last raid, was clutched in his unscarred hand.

“d’Artagnan, don’t, will you listen-“ The gun still weighed heavily in his hand. d’Artagnan was still coming, still stalking. He wasn’t seeing a friend, Athos understood that now. He was a target, a mission. He was something to be completed.

Which meant…

Ignoring the bile which clawed up his throat, Athos raised the gun, the barrel pointed straight at his friend’s chest. d’Artagnan froze, knife gripped tightly. His chest rose and fell as his eyes narrowed, onto the weapon. As if calculating whether he could get past it.

“We were friends!” The crack in Athos’ voice was not one he had expected. It took a moment for him to register the tears in his own eyes, “If we’d known – If I’d thought for a _second_ you were alive we wouldn’t have stopped looking! _I’d_ have never given up on you!”

But d’Artagnan just stood there. He hadn’t even flinched. Athos felt a tear drip onto his cheek and, for the first time since basic training in the army, he felt his weapon hand quake.

He wouldn’t… Athos knew he _couldn’t._ This was d’Artagnan. d’Artagnan… Their lives had stumbled across each other and wound together in a way it had seemed they’d never come apart. Memories crowded his mind, countless of snapshots of their friendship.

Hours of training to get him up to speed. Long days in the practice gym and the shooting range in preparation for the exams.

Sitting by his bed, waiting for him to come round after surgery, Constance wrapped in a hug as they watched over her husband.

And the urge to both kiss him and kill him when Lemay had admitted d’Artagnan hadn’t been infected after that recon mission gone wrong.

d’Artagnan insistence at staying in the warehouse, his determination to risk his own life so they could ensure a conviction for the man who had ultimately tried to kill him…

The boy’s funeral, the murmured ‘All for One’…

This was d’Artagnan…

He couldn’t.

Athos blinked, ignoring the wetness that stuck to his eyelashes, leaving his lids feeling awkward and weighty, “I’m sorry I gave up on you…”

He tossed the gun to the side. It clattered against the hard grey floor. Athos raised his hands, stretching them up above his head in surrender.

“I know you’re in there, d’Artagnan. I don’t know what Richelieu did but this is not you…” He swallowed, refusing to allow his gaze to sink to the knife. Instead he held his friend’s blank stare, searching for something, anything of the man he knew.

“If you want to kill me, go right ahead, but you’re one of us, d’Artagnan. I don’t think you will.” D’Artagnan frowned, ever so slightly. His head tilted to the side, in a question, as if the abrupt turn of events had thrown him off track.

Athos’ heart felt like it might hammer out of his chest as he waited got d’Artagnan to make a decision, any decision. Uncertainty, inner turmoil, there was a battle going on inside the boy’s head.

“All for one… Remember that.”

Something - _something_ – flashed through d’Artagnan’s gaze. Good or bad Athos couldn’t be sure, but it was the first time his gaze had eyes had been anything but dead in the whole confrontation.

“I’m your friend, d’Artagnan. My name. What’s my name? We spent the best part of two years at each other’s side, you know me. You know it, I know you do…”

“A…” d’Artagnan’s eyebrows drew together, the sound rolling across his tongue as if it was for the first time.

_Come on…_ Athos urged silently... He didn’t want to talk and break his train of thought, but he was begging inside his head.

_You can do this… I know you can…_

His gaze was so focused, his concentration so narrowed, that Athos hadn’t noticed as the door slid silently open.

“A-“ Suddenly, d’Artagnan’s whole body jerked, a feral cry ripping through the room. Athos shot forward as every muscle the other man’s body tensed, before he crumpled to the ground.

Ninon stepped smartly over the body, giving one more blast of the Taser for good measure.

“We _have_ Richelieu in custody,” The blonde arched a sculpted eyebrow at Athos, who, watery eyed and pale, was shaking all over.

“What’s going on?”

* * *

 

He was cold, _all over._ Not exactly in the temperature sense, although that was also true. No, it was like he was cold from the inside out. It was like his insides were ice, frozen with the devastating, gut-churning, realisation at one of his best friends had been out there all this time and he simply hadn’t been looking.       

Athos, not for the first time, felt as though he may throw up as he looked on through the glass partition. d’Artagnan’s sedated body lay on of the medical wing, his torso naked under a thin blanket which had been pulled up to his hips. Doctor Lemay buzzed around his still figure as he carried out tests. An IV had been placed in d’Artagnan’s good hand, an instrument clipped onto his finger to monitor his heart beat.

All laid out, Athos could take in the extent of the injuries for the first time. The scars, the bruising… Athos closed his eyes, remembered the heat of the second explosion which had knocked him off his feet. He’d had scrapes and scars from the day, and he’d been at least 20 feet away. d’Artagnan had been _inside_ that explosion. What must have it felt like to be trapped inside that building? Had he cried? Had he been sure that help was coming? How long before that hope had faded, before he realised that he had been abandoned?

The frost in his heart deepened.

Ninon hadn’t tried to speak to him. Even as Athos had arranged the transport of d’Artagnan’s unconscious body, she had just stood back and observed. It was probably for the best. Even now she stayed off to the side, watching Athos as he watched his friend.

Hurried footsteps pounded in the corridor outside, getting louder until the door behind the pair burst open. Athos didn’t look round.

“I was debriefing the snipers when Porthos called-“ Aramis darted forward, a hand pressed up to the glass, “-He said…”

“d’Artagnan’s alive…” Athos’ voice was flat, his eyes forcing themselves to open to the sorry sight before him. Lemay was holding up the damaged arm, a single finger running over the scars, pressing carefully to test for thickness. “Richelieu had him all this time.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Aramis as the door opened and shut again.

“Holy shi- how is this…” Porthos cringed, his eyes travelling the whole length of their friend.

“But there was a body… We did the autopsy…” Aramis said weakly, “Right height, right weight…”

“And too badly burned for DNA,” Athos reminded him, voice empty of emotion, “No dental record to match against, hands too charred for prints… Richelieu left us a John Doe and we took it to be d’Artagnan…”

“But _how_?” Aramis reached a hand out, fingers pressing against the glass, his voice strained to the point of breaking point.

Athos just shook his head. The three watched as Lemay noted whatever he had found on his chart and moved around to the other, scar free arm. Whatever he found left him shaking his head sadly, and something else was recorded on the clipboard.

“So the man in the mask…” Porthos breathed, leaving the unfinished question hanging in the air. Athos nodded.

“It was him.”

Aramis let out a pained, guttural, moan, “Athos I never thought it was possible… I’m so sorr-“

“Don’t…” Athos cut across the apology that he didn’t want to hear. The conversation was cut off as Lemay turned away from his patient and let himself through the door, into the viewing room. Immediately he had four set of eyes glued to him.

“How is he?” Athos asked directly, not wasting time with pleasantries.

Lemay sighed, his free hand rubbing along his brow bone. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted as the main door opened again, although this time the door was thrown with such force that it slammed against the wall.

“Someone care to explain to me what in God name is going on?”

The Captain stepped into the little room and glared at each of his men in turn.

“We have Richelieu in custody, the man we have been hunting for a _year_. We have 48 hours to charge him before we have to release him, so why is my raid leader in the medical wing? Why the _hell_ are you not beating a confession out of him?”

The expressions was met with ranged from the heartbroken (Aramis) to the emotionless of (Athos) with Porthos and Lemay situated somewhere in between.

“See for yourself,” Athos moved to the side and allowed Treville access to the glass. When the man focused on the figure in the bed, eyes fixed to the face of d’Artagnan. A low growl escaped his throat.

“d’Artagnan… Jesus H…” The Captain spun back around, “Someone explain to me what’s happening?”

Athos opened his mouth, but someone else got there first. Ninon stepped forward, arms crossed over her chest and glare in her gaze which, until now, she had done very well at hiding.

“It seems…” Ninon’s hot gaze turned from Treville to the boy in the hospital bed, “That d’Artagnan is alive, and has been playing the spy all this time.”

“Excuse me?” Aramis spluttered around his words, but Ninon looked unphased.

“I am willing to point out the obvious if no one else will. d’Artagnan got his place here _by chance, b_ ecause of Athos’ bleeding heart mentality. He proceeded to work in our organisation for two years. He had access of our files, open cases and personnel, and gained the trust of every musketeer he came across. He then _faked_ his death, only to turn up again a year working for the man who he _supposedly_ despised.” Ninon’s hands settled on her hips, her gaze slipping over each man in the room. Every set of eyes in the room was focused on her, but she’d be damned if they expected her to wilt now.

“He’s played us all for fools. d’Artagnan has been a member of the Guard all this time.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! People are really going after Ninon with pitchforks! Not that I can really blame you....
> 
> Thanks for all the wonderful feedback <3 On with the next chapter!

The silence in the room hammered into everyone’s eardrums. Ninon’s damning assessment of the situation seemed to suck the oxygen from the room, leaving what air was left thick and hard to breathe. No one reacted for a few moments, before Athos broke the spell.

“Get. Out.”

His voice was hard, barely concealed fury bubbling under the cracks, touching the surface. He clutched at his composure by _threads_.

Ninon blinked, eyebrows shooting up in surprise, “Excuse me?”

Athos took a very careful step forward, “Get out. Now.”

“And why-“

“If you think, for a second, that d’Artagnan is a spy, then you clearly don’t have _half_ the intellect I have accredited you with!”

Ninon looked like she’d been slapped in the face, but Athos, now in full swing, thundered forward.

“That man is the most dedicated agent I’ve ever met! He would have never turned on us, he would have _never_ have willingly gone back to the Guard. He-“

“You-“ Ninon, clearly recovered from the initial shock of Athos’ insults, pointed a sharp finger at the man, her lip curling in aggravation, “Are letting your emotions cloud your judgment! If this was any other team you would be saying exactly the same thing as me!”

“But it’s NOT!” Athos exploded, his voice blasting throughout the little room, to the point Treville put a strong hand on his arm, just in case. “It’s d’Artagnan and he wouldn’t –“

“That’s enough,” Treville cut across the fight. He had a strange suspicion that, if he didn’t shut this down now, it would result in fists. He looked at Athos, still holding him firmly in place as he glared at Ninon.

“You are going to calm down _now_ , before I order Porthos to escort you out of here.”

“But Captain –“

“And you-“ Treville ignored Athos’ indignant protest and turned instead to Ninon, “I suggest you leave. Now. Before I let go of Athos.”

Ninon blinked, taken completely by surprise, “Captain I-“

“Now, Ninon. Go and oversee the interviews of the newest arrestees. Do _not_ make me ask again.”

For a second it seemed like Ninon was about to argue with the Captain, but, after a minute of indecision, she stepped back.

“Fine,” Ninon schooled her face until it was a blank face of neutrality. She offered a sharp nod at the Captain. “If you’ll excuse me…” She turned, spinning on her heel and stalked from the room, her head held high. Her blonde ponytail bounced as the door slammed shut behind her.

With Ninon gone, Athos turned, mouth open to ask the Captain if he could possibly believe what the woman had insinuated, but Treville got there first.

“Lemay,” Treville looked to the doctor, who’s face was definitely a shade paler after the argument, “How is he doing? Have you examined him?”

“I, uh… Yes, yes I have.” Lemay shot a nervous look at Athos, edgy to say the wrong thing in case that anger was turned on him. But, luckily, Athos seemed to have calmed down, so he turned back to the notes he had taken.

“The larger scars you can see fit the timeline for being obtained in the explosion following the Marmion raid. They cover approximately 40% of his upper body and it seem to have been caused by a range of thermal burns ranging from first to third degree…” Lemay’s eyes trailed back, through the glass to the boy, “The most severe have been inflicted to his left arm. Based on the thick, aggressive, scarring, I’d imagine most of the sensitively to the area will be gone. He hasn’t appeared to have received any skin grafts, which is surprising given the severity of the injuries. That would suggest that, wherever he was treated, it wasn’t a hospital.”

“And the rest of him?” Treville asked. His hand had stayed on Athos’ arm. He didn’t acknowledge it, but Athos had begun to shake.

“I can’t tell for sure…” Lemay paused for a moment to blow out a long breath, “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he experienced some forceful coercion techniques…”

“Forceful coercion techniques..?” Aramis repeated, running the words over his tongue in an attempt to understand them. Porthos, however, was far quicker on the uptake.

“Torture!” The big man spat the word at the floor, “They _tortured_ ‘im!”

“Quiet,” Treville held up his free hand, silencing the men without looking at them, “Lemay, how did you come to that conclusion?”

“He’s got quite a few bruises, newly healed bones and cuts, although I’m aware they could have come from a range of sources… But he has other scarring, again from thermal burns, but they’re in varying states of healing. The newest are three running down his under arm here,” Lemay raised his own arm, indicating the positioning of the wounds.

Treville frowned, feeling like he was missing something, “And what makes you think they were inflicted with torture in mind?”

“Captain…” The Englishmen carefully removed his thin black glasses and rubbed a hand over the fine line around his eyes, “Those newer burns are uniform, all with the same implement. My best guess is a lighter but that’s neither here or there… My point is, d’Artagnan will have suffered in that raid fire. To sustain burns of that intensity he must have been in that building for some time. The physical after effect of that ordeal is there for us all to see, but there will be mental scars too. If you _wanted_ to torture a burn victim, physically _and_ emotionally, what better way to do it than with fire?”

The reality of what their youngest had likely gone through settled on the five musketeers, thickening the air like mug before a thunderstorm. Aramis’ body slumped sideways, his shoulder resting heavily on the glass patrician. His eyes stayed on the still body. Athos was sure he was mapping every injury of the body, every injury they had allowed due to their apathy. It didn’t matter what they had thought, the evidence they’d been faced with. They should have known, they should have _searched._ Instead? Here they were…. A year on, their broken and bruised brother lay before them, proof of their profound failure.

“When can I speak with him?” Treville’s voice cut across the thick silence. Although the question was directed at Lemay, three other sets of eyes swivelled to him.

“Captain you can’t think –“ Aramis began as Porthos thundered over the top, “He ain’t some spy!”

“And I never suggested such, but we need to know what happened. Need his testimony. His evidence could be what we need to secure a conviction, it could be exactly what we need.”

The two men sagged in relief, but Treville noticed Athos stiffen beside him.

“That…” Athos’ voice sounded like it had been dragged across sandpaper, gruff and weathered and thread bare, “Might not be so easy…”

“What?”

Athos actually shuddered. His hands raised and anchored themselves in his hair, eyelids sliding shut. The memories of their encounter pushed to the forefront of his mind. Those eyes. How was he supposed to react to looking into eyes which should be a bottomless well of memories, and yet be looked at as a stranger? No, not a stranger. As the enemy…

“Athos?”

The shaking was back. The ice which had kept a stopper on his emotions was shattering, seems of composure tearing themselves apart.

Strong hands fell onto his shoulders, gripping him firmly to ensure he didn’t fall apart.

“Athos, stay with me,” Treville’s voice was soft, but there was no doubt in Athos’ mind that it was still an order. “Come now… Settle, remember? Centre yourself and settle…”

Athos let out a shaky breath and forced himself to nod. Even though it was the last he wanted to do he forced his eyes open, meeting Treville’s unshakable gaze. And Treville, as he had so many times before, forced Athos to ground himself. He could do this…

“I’m,” He forced his voice to level out, “I’m good…”

“Good man…” Treville offered a small nod, “Now, why might interviewing him be difficult?”

“He…” How to explain this without sounding crazy? Or like Ninon had been right after all? “He attacked me. At the raid. He had no idea who I was.”

The Captain frowned, “What?”

Athos, finally feeling like he could break eye contact with his old mentor without ripping apart, looked back to his friend, still motionless on the bed, “Whatever Richelieu did to him, whatever happened since that night we lost him… He’s different. He didn’t recognise me. He looked me straight in the eyes and attacked all the same. Like I was a stranger.”

Carefully Athos pulled away from Treville’s hands. The older man let him go, watching as he turned fully to the window.

“It’s like he’s empty…”

Aramis murmured something in Spanish. If Athos had to ask it sounded like a prayer. Aramis never felt the need to pray in a language they could all understand. Athos himself had never been one to turn to any high power for support, but he’d consider it now if he thought it would help.

“If it’s safe, Lemay, I want him brought round,” Treville was the first to pull himself back to reality and begin his orders, “But until we know what we are dealing with he needs to be retrained.”

“Captain, is that really necessary?” Porthos’ voice was pained at the very idea.

“We have to, until we know…” Athos shook his head as he turned, eyes finding Porthos. His face was as stricken as his voice suggested. And Athos could understand that, he did. Porthos had woken up shackled by enemies one too many times to be comfortable with doing that to anyone, friend or foe… but he hadn’t seen the look in d’Artagnan’s eyes. He didn’t know what they were dealing with.

“But, if we do have to,” Aramis crossed his arms over his chest, “Restrain him I mean…We should be there, for when he wakes up.”

Athos could _hear_ the lump in his friend’s throat which he forced his words around.

“I can’t spare all of you,” Treville, as much as he hated it, had to look at the bigger picture. The clock had already started ticking on those they had been arrested, 48 hours to charge or release He needed his best men on the job, even if it was the last place they wanted to be, “Athos, right now I need you with Richelieu, and I’m sure you have some questions of your own?”

Athos had to fight back the immediate ‘no’ which threatened to tumble from his mouth before his brain caught up. Of course he wanted to stay but d’Artagnan was the safest he had been all year. And Treville was right, Athos was desperate to be in the same room as Richelieu.

“I’ll stay?” Aramis offered, “And call you with any changes. I just… I don’t think he should wake up alone. I mean, he’d have been there for us… A friendly face might, you know, help.”

After a moment of contemplation Treville nodded.

“Any changes, you call us. You two need to get Richelieu into an interview room and get him talking before he cries for a lawyer…”

The others began to shuffle towards the door, offering last looks at the man in the bed, but Aramis frowned.

“Aren’t we forgetting something?”

Treville looked back, eyebrow raised in question, “Aramis?”

Athos and Porthos wore matching questionable expressions which took Aramis by surprise. Athos had been so desperate to contact her before with the barest hint of d’Artagnan… What had changed?

“We need to call Constance,” Aramis; gaze slid between each of the three men, waiting for someone to agree with him, “Her _husband_ is alive. It’s been a year. We have to-“

But Athos shook his head, “Not yet.”

The reaction took Aramis by surprise. For a moment he just blinked. “What? You were desperate to call her _yesterday,_ before we even knew for sure! What’s changed?”

“You…” Athos said simply. At Aramis’ surprised expression he thought it best to explain himself.

“What you said yesterday. We can’t raise her hopes if we aren’t sure. It would be shattering…”

“But,” Aramis protested, “But we know! He’s alive, we need-“

“-To wait,” Athos settled a hand gently on his friend’s upper arm, “At least until he wakes up. When we know exactly what’s happened, what we’re dealing with, we’ll call her. But first we need to know what happened to d’Artagnan first.”

It made sense. Aramis hated the fact, but it made sense.

“Fine… We’ll wait…”

“Athos we need to go,” Treville pressed the pair gently, who nodded and stepped apart.

“Call us the moment he’s awake…” Athos held his friend’s gaze until he received a nod, before he broke off to join the others. Aramis watched them file out; Porthos first, then the Captain. Athos was just about to close the door behind him when Aramis called out.

“Hey Athos?”

His friend froze, eyes sliding back up Aramis, narrowed slightly in question.

Aramis offered him a small nod, “Give him hell.”

The smallest of nods tugged at a corner of his mouth, just for a second, before it was gone.

“Don’t worry, you can count on it.”

* * *

 

This wasn’t Richelieu’s first arrest, but it had been a while. Years in this kind of business had made him careful. Always a couple of thugs on his side, always a second exit strategy… He made sure to stay one financial step away from anything illegal, nothing would ever be linked to him.

But this made this current situation all the more infuriating. The cuffs, made of strong, polished metal, bit into the wrinkled skin at his wrists. They’d been put on damn sight tighter than seemed strictly necessary, but it mattered little. Really? It was an inconvenience more than anything.

These people, whoever _they_ were, had nothing on him. His men knew better than to turn on him. Every man had a pressure point, a _weakness_. If that was controlled then a man could be steered. None of his men would align themselves with the law, not if they valued what they held most dear.

The one exception to that was the Doctor, but he had already chosen his future. That problem would resolve itself soon. And without that idiot Deniau he would be back on the streets of his city before day was out.

This was certainly an inconvenience, an annoyance, but it was by no means over. Not by any stretch of fanciful thinking.

A range of heavy metallic clinking began from the heavy locked door and, a moment later, it swung open. Richelieu’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.

“Olivier de La –“

“Done with your shit.” Athos growled, cutting across his old name. He stepped inside the small room, his eyes narrowing towards the older man with a bone chilling glare, “That’s not my name and I have _zero_ interest in this little power play.”

The younger man paced carefully to the other side of the table, tugged out the empty chair, and sat down opposite that man in cuffs. He took in the man before him. Expensive suit, rumpled and dirtied in a way Athos bet which would _never_ normally be allowed. Short hair, now more grey and brown, thin face and pain skin.

He looked, well, entirely unthreatening. Too bad Athos knew better, far better. Had he just ordered d’Artagnan’s torture or had he done it himself? How many times? How long had d’Artagnan’s held out because, God knows the boy was stubborn? How long had it taken for this man to break him? Something had caused the emptiness in those eyes, something this monster had done. If it was up to Athos he would put a bullet in the man’s brain right –

But that wouldn’t help. Athos schooled his face back to a blank mask as he watched Richelieu.

“I do hope you aren’t taking what happened with your brother personally?” Richelieu raised a single eyebrow, entirely unruffled, “I’m sure you can understand that business is business?”

“I assure you I’m no longer losing any sleep about what my brother paid you to do,” Athos’s top lip curled with a slight drawl, as if bored, “I feel the 50 years he and Rochefort received from the judge did much to heal that wound.”

A flicker of annoyance danced across Richelieu’s eyes, which forced Athos to hold back a smirk.

“Now… What I want to talk about is the rather wonderful shit creek you’ve found yourself in.”

“Surely the term ‘ _shit creek_ ’ is a little strong?” Richelieu straightened his back, cold eyes holding Athos’ gaze without blinking, “This _nasty_ vendetta that you and whoever you work for have against me is a ghastly business. These charges have no evidence to make any of this horrendous crimes stick to me. No judge will ever approve a trial, you could just save us both some time and release me now?”

“That confidence will do you well, a jury _just_ adore an un-remorseful defendant.”

“This will never get as far as a jury.”

“Oh you think so?” Athos leant forward, elbows coming to rest on the bare table, “The house you were found in was teaming with ex-cons, illegals and people out on parole –“

“And you judge by company kept? How rude, Olivier.”

Athos ignored the obvious bait of his real name and continued.

“We have two witnesses ready to explain to the jury _exactly_ what sort of operation you ran, when they’re through everyone will see you for exactly what you are…”

The revelation of _two_ sent a flicker of surprise across Richelieu’s face, but he recovered quickly enough. One he knew about, _Doctor_ Deniau, but two?

There was only one other option.

“So you captured, Charles? A pity, he was such a good asset.”

_Charles… His name was NOT-_

But no. That was what Richelieu wanted. He wanted Athos riled. Well he wasn’t going to get it.

“He hasn’t been Charles for years, Richelieu, not since he escaped your organisation. He might have been one of yours through force, but he came to us through choice.”

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed, a smile twisting his face in a way which made Athos want to shudder, “Olivier…” He began, settling back with ease of motion, “You don’t believe he was ever truly yours do you? I might have let him of the leash for a while but your _d'Artagnan_ will always be my Charles…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews and feedback! 
> 
> d'Artagnan might be back, but there's a long way to go with this fic!

Lemay had fetched two pairs of dusty restraints which the medical wing kept for emergencies, but admitted in a small voice that he had never seen them used. Thankfully, Aramis took pity on the man and taken the task on himself.

The cuffs certainly were old, but made of leather, not metal, to offer more comfort. To protect his friend’s already damaged skin, Aramis carefully wrapped his wrists and ankles in a thin layer of bandage cloth before attaching the restraints to his friend and the bed frame. He left more slack for movement than was protocol but, Aramis realised with a wave of nausea, there wasn’t a protocol for anything _close_ to this situation.

Once the restraints were in place Aramis pulled up a nearby chair. Forearms rested heavily against his knees as he leaned forward, watching his friend’s still figure. If he didn’t know better, Aramis might have thought he was sleeping. d’Artagnan had always been a still sleeper. It had surprised Aramis when he’d first learned that fact. With a nickname like ‘Pup’, he’d kind of expected some kind of boundless energy, but actually once the kid found a comfortable position that was him.

He really could just be sleeping… And Aramis would sit here for as long as he was needed. After all, he owed d’Artagnan some time by his bedside. The memory of his own sickness sent a shudder through Aramis. The knowledge of just how close he’d come to death, how he _would_ have died without the blood of his young friend, churned in his stomach. If d’Artagnan hadn’t been there, he hadn’t been there to give the anti-bodies in his blood Aramis would have… Well it wasn’t worth thinking about.

Now he had d’Artagnan back, his friend was back… Only the mental state of his youngest brother was still in question. Whether he was still him was still in question…

“Oh d’Artagnan…” There was heartbreak in his voice.

Once, in one of the few lectures he had actually _attended_ in his six month attempt at university, a professor suggested coma patients might retain their sense of hearing.

This wasn’t a coma, not exactly, but the idea suddenly sounded appealing.

“I hated you at first…” A soft smile curled at the corner of Aramis’ mouth, “But I guess you knew that…” A sigh escaped the Marksman. He fished under his shirt and tugged out his worn rosary. His fingers worried against the beads.

“You just… You had it so easy. You came here and with Athos’ seal of approval everyone accepted you… I guess I was just jealous. I mean, I never… I guess I wish I’d had an Athos…”

He paused to slip the rosary from his neck so he could slide the beads through his fingers easily.

“We’re more alike than you think, a lot of differences too, but not everything… We’re both fighting for a country that’s not really our own. I always thought it made us more trustworthy, not less. We don’t follow orders blindly because of where we were born, we chose to be adopted into this country, offered it our loyalty because we wanted to, not because we had to… Not everyone thinks like that though, some people are just morons. I guess I was jealous you had someone to shield you from it… I wasn’t so lucky… There’s plenty of people in this word that think all matters is where you are born…”

Aramis didn’t talk much about his Chilean Father. His mother had been a wild child who’d been bitten by the travel bug. She’d backpacked through South America with a friend when she can found Matías, a twenty-two year old bar tender in Viña del Mar.

His own memories of life in Chilie were rather sketchy, faded with childhood.

Lucile had always said his father had been a good man, just not ready to grow up, so when it the _surprise_ had come along… Well he hadn’t been ready. He had tried, attempted to do right by his little family, the relationship had been doomed to fail. After Lucile had ended the relationship for the final time she had returned to France without Matías, although with Aramis, now seven years old, at her side.

He had loved his step-father and he _adored_ his twin half-sisters who were now just shy of their twenty second birthdays, but he’d always felt a little apart. His mother’s fair skin, Marie and Nicolette’s blonde hair and bright blue eyes… Aramis _looked_ different. His skin _could_ perhaps be mistaken for an excellent tan next to his sisters, but his dark brown eyes and almost black hair left plenty of questions the average onlookers mind. It was those who felt the need to ask such questions which had riled Aramis though.

One day shortly before his nineteenth birthday stood out as the turning point. Marie and Nicolette had idolised their big brother, in their seven year old minds he was the coolest person to ever walk the earth and their brother picking them up on a Friday after school and going for ice cream possibly the most amazing thing to ever happen. Or it had been, until a police car had signalled them to pull over. After half an hour of questions, ID checks and phone calls later they had been allowed to go, but by then the accusations were clear. Someone, some anonymous _do gooder_ had watched the twins get into his car and assumed something sinister. Because of how he _looked_ someone had assumed he was kidnapping his sisters for no better reason than they didn’t look alike.

The event had left a bad taste in his mouth. After that he hadn’t gone home so much, and within six months he had dropped out of university to join the military.

“It never really happened here…” Aramis mused, “In the Musketeers, but by then I had a chip on my shoulder. The Military was worse. Most were good men, would have trusted me with their lives, but there was always a few stirrers who would mutter about birth certificates and spies… I mostly let it roll of my back, nothing gets to me, ya’know? But once in Afghanistan...”

Aramis let out a sigh, followed by a hollow laugh, “I can’t believe I’m telling you this… I was meant to be providing sniper cover, even back then I was a good shot, but me and my buddy got ambushed. I took a bullet to the shoulder…”The rosary beads tapped softly together as he raised his hand to the scar on his covered by his dark jumper. He rubbed over the area, imagining he could feel the raised skin through the thick fabric.

“My friend wasn’t so lucky. He uhh… He died in my arms from a bullet to the stomach. This one _loud_ mouth – you know I can’t even remember his name – said I had let slip our location, that my wound was to make the ambush look real. Most ignored him, but not all. The man who had died had been well liked, been in the unit for years longer than me. I think grieving is easier when there is someone to blame… It took a long, _long_ , time for people to stop looking at me sideways.”

He paused for a moment, letting the smooth surface of the beads slip over his fingers.

“I expected you to get those same looks…” The guilty confession was small, yet seemed to swell to fill the whole room, “I mean… In my head you were just a Guard member who had avoided arrested. You’d almost got Athos killed, I thought… Well I don’t know what I thought… I was waiting for you to turn, show your true colours. I thought Athos was blinded by guilt, thought Porthos was too trusting… But it just turned out I was the one who was wrong. So, so wrong…. “

Something hitched in the Musketeer’s throat.

“d’Artagnan you’re one of us in _every_ way imaginable and when we lost you – our office was never the same. _We_ were never the same. Not without you…”

His fingers finally came to the smooth glass crucifix at the end of his rosary. His hand was shaking slightly as he brought it to his lips.

“Come back to us…“ Aramis murmured, “Please…”

* * *

 

The grey uniform of the Bastille was stiff and uncomfortable. Deniau shifted awkwardly, resisting the urge to itch his skin raw. Discomfort seemed to be part of his life now. It was ever present. Clothing, chairs, beds… Thoughts. It didn’t seem to be going away any time soon.

He shifted on his cheap plastic chair and looked down at the questionable food in front of him.

Food. It needed to be added to the list of things which currently made him uncomfortable. The food was disgusting.

With only a few mouthfuls eaten Deniau grabbed the plastic tray and pushed away from table. He tossed the food and shoved the orange tray onto an ever growing pile, before heading back to his cell. He passed the two prison guards who watched over the dinner hall and turned left, almost running straight into a broad chest. He muttered and attempted too step around the larger man. Instead of being allowed passed a hand slammed him back against the wall, the man’s dangerous gaze glinting down at him.

“Fancy seeing you here, Doctor.”

“I – I’m sorry! I –“

The face above Deniau was familiar, one of Richelieu’s thugs who must have been taken in some raid… If his secret was out, if Richelieu _knew_ that he’d cooperated with the police…

“N..no…” Deniau’s voice came out as a cry, “Guards! Gu-“

The sharpened end of a toothbrush stabbed into his gut, aimed into his lungs. When the implement was removed Deniau’s knees buckled, his back hitting the wall violently as he slid to the floor at footsteps and shouts began to echo around him.

“Richelieu sends his regards…”

* * *

 

Athos cursed, slamming his phone onto the table with enough force cause Porthos’ head to shoot up.

“What’s happnen’?”

“Deniau’s dead…” Athos spat, glaring through the one-way mirror at Richelieu who just sat snugly in the next room, “That’s why the bastard is so smug, he ordered the kill!”

“The rat –“ Porthos stepped forward, until he was side by side with his friend. He shook his head, arms crossing over his chest, “How did it happen?”

“Sharpened plastic toothbrush, some gang drug runner… Richelieu must have put the hit out before he was arrested.”

Porthos shook his head “Withou’ Deniau… what’s the changes of still gettin’ that conviction?”

Athos fingers ran along his brow bone, massaging what he was sure was going to become a headache, “Slim to none…”

“So all of this had been for nothing?”

“Without Deniau’s testimony all we have is circumstantial! He’s right, we can’t pin anything on him... Without a witness to tie this all together everything falls apart. Once our 48 hours are up we’ll have to release him, and when that happens we will lose him forever…”

No wonder Richelieu was sitting there so conceitedly. He’d had this all planned… From the moment they’d placed him in handcuffs, he had known how this would play out.

Athos suddenly wanted to punch something. He didn’t, but it was a close call…

“We still have some time on the clock before we have to release him…” Athos sighed and, with one last glare turned away from the man only a glass wall away.

“Have him taken back to his cell to stew. I’m going to go see Treville and go through our options…”

Porthos nodded, but Athos was already storming from the little room.

“Fill Aramis in once Richelieu has been taken care of. Let me know how d’Artagnan is doing…”

* * *

 

Treville had already heard the news by the time Athos tracked him down. He looked about ready to murder the closest person, which was, at least, the same as Athos.

“He needed to be in protective custody!” Treville took to pacing instead of lashing out, “I _told_ them! The Guard cannot be trusted and now – now –“

“He’s going to get away with everything…” Athos finished of his commander’s words, how own flat, “We can’t charge him, we can’t hold him beyond 48 hours without charge…“

“He is going to walk out that door,” Treville sat down heavily at his desk, sighing like he’d suddenly aged 10 years, “and think he’s invincible…”

Athos took the Captain’s actions as an invitation to sink into the chair opposite. He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Shall I cross my fingers for him to magically fall done some stairs or choke on his own food?” He was joking, well half joking, but the stern look he received from Treville had him holding up his hands in surrender.

“We’re better than that, Athos.”

Athos merely shrugged, wishing suddenly for a large class of wine in his hand, “You are. Any time I think about d’Artagnan lying in the Medical Wing my thoughts turn rather homicidal.”

“Doesn’t mean you’d resort to murdering a man in our custody.”

A humourless snort escaped the younger man, “Doesn’t it?”

Treville fixed him with a levelled look, “Athos -”

“Fine...” Athos waved a hand in defeat, “I won’t kill him, but is there nothing we can do? If he disappears now we will never get him back. He’ll be out of the country before we have anymore evidence.”

“Samara and her team are currently working through every Guard we have in custody. If one of them flips our case is back on.”

“That’s a big if…” Athos’s pale finger scrubbed across his beard. It seemed like a thousand to one chance.

“Samara is good, if anyone can get convince one of those low lives to flip it’s her… But,” Treville leaned forward, fingers laced together as he fixed his second in command with a focused gaze, “We have something else to discuss.”

Athos frowned at the change of subject, “Captain?”

Treville just sighed. This was not a conversation he wished to have, nor a conversation Athos wished to hear. Still they needed to talk about d’Artagnan.

“d’Artagnan’s return is nothing short of a miracle…” Treville had barely begun and Athos had already begun to bristle, “I am _not_ agreeing with Ninon. I do not believe for a second that he left us willingly, but, your account of events is unnerving…”

Athos relaxed minimally, but still frowned, “I only told you what happened.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Treville soothed, “But your story, how he didn’t recognise you, how he attacked you, it’s possible that whatever was done to him is beyond repair.”

“What?”

“I’ve seen it before,” Treville reached across the table and considered touching Athos before thinking better of it, the man was still wound too tight, “During my time in war. Torture does terrible things to good men. It has nothing to do with strength or stubbornness or courage… Nobody can withstand that forever…”

They didn’t know exactly what had happened to d’Artagnan, they might never know. All they could be sure of was whatever had happened had been enough to shatter their youngest brother…

“We want him to recover, and when he regains consciousness we’ll have a better idea, but if he isn’t capable of that then we need to look at other options.”

“Which are what exactly..?” Athos’ voice was scratchy, guarded.

Treville slid a printed sheet of paper out from a draw in his desk and passed it across the table to Athos. The younger man frowned, scrutinising the single sheet. It only took a few moments before realisation crashed over Athos and he exploded.

“You want to send d’Artagnan to an _insane asylum_?”

“Athos,” It took a great deal of self-control for Treville to keep his voice level, especially when met with Athos’ fury, “It is a secure rehabilitation centre for the members of the military and the police force. They can offer him the help he needs.”

“By locking him _up_?”

“d’Artagnan needs specialised help by people with the clearance too-“

The glare he threw Treville’s way would normally be enough to make anyone shrivel. Too bad Treville had practically invented that look. He didn’t even flinch.

Athos carried on regardless, “So this is what this is about! You’re worried about what he knows, so you’re going to send him away to keep his mouth shut.”

“I want him to get _better_ , Athos,” Treville carefully stood from his chair, hands pressed hard against the top of his desk, “As much as you, but if he _can’t_ get better we need to look at how to best care for him. With his security clearance he cannot be placed into just any care facility, and this is the best in the country.”

“He can stay in the medical wing!” Athos stabbed a finger out of the window, towards the medical building, “We can help him, we’re his friends and he _needs_ us!”

“He needs help, Athos. Help which we cannot provide.”

Athos just snorted, “All for one? Does that mean anything to you anymore? You don’t get to send a brother away if he becomes inconvenient!”

No other agent would ever get away speaking to their commander with that tone and, usually, Athos wouldn’t either. But Treville could see that the fury in Athos’ was a thin covering for his grief. After only just getting his surrogate little brother back, the possibility of losing him would be heart breaking. The younger man was desperately trying to cover it up.

“I only want what is best for the boy,” Treville said levelly, “I want him safe, but I also want our country’s secrets safe. If that means putting him somewhere secure to keep ensure both I will not hesitate. I’m sorry.”

Athos’ eyes dipped back down paper, still in clutched in his hand. Treville wondered if he might be considering it as an option, but after a moment he crumpled it tightly into a ball. He placed the vandalised piece of paper back onto the desk and stepped back.

“He won’t be needing any _facility,_ Treville. Thank you for your concern.”

The captain opened his mouth to reply, but the younger man had already stormed from the room.

With a sigh Treville sunk back down to his desk, a hand rubbing tiredly over his brow.

It had gone as well as could be expected…

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the nect chapter, thank you so much to everyone who leaves kudos and reviews. You have no idea how amazing it is to read all your feedback ^^

“Remember our first time out of the country?” Aramis smiled a little sadly, “You’d never been on a plane before…”

d’Artagnan still hadn’t moved, even though Lemay had lowered the sedatives over four hours ago. It was hardly surprising given the state of his body.  The bruises, the dark circles under his eyes, the loss of muscle mass around his upper arms and chest. Aramis wondered if his friend had been allowed any real rest in the last year. Maybe his body just wasn’t ready to come back to consciousness yet…  

“You were trying to act so nonchalant, but you were like a kid at Christmas… Rushed Porthos through the airport so we didn’t miss our flight…”

“I never even gotta’ chance to get some duty free… “A hushed voice murmured from behind Aramis, “Barbaric.”

Aramis turned to see Porthos pulling up a chair beside him. He couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief at the arrival of a friendly face. Someone to share help shoulder the load of their fallen friend.

“No change?”

Aramis just shook his head. Silence settled between them as Porthos sat down on Aramis’ left, his hand finding his friend’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

“Does it help? Talkin’ to ‘im I mean?” Porthos murmured finally.

Aramis’ cheeks heated up in embarrassment, “Help me or him?”

“Either…”

Aramis just shrugged.

“Some think patients in comas have some sense of what’s going on around them, there’s no proof either way, but I think it’s worth it, just in case…”

Porthos fell silent again. All Aramis could hear his friend’s heavy breaths, for a few minutes, until…

“Deniau is dead…” Porthos’ heavy voice rolled over him, “Richelieu had ‘im killed. Athos thinks our case is over. Without Deniau it all falls apart…”

Porthos had expected Aramis to get fired up. To curse or shout or _something_ … But he just sighed, defeated.

“So he gets away with this, with what he did to d’Artagnan, everything. He gets to just walk away and d’Artagnan gets _this_ …” The last word from Aramis broke his friend’s heart, made the grip on his shoulder tighten.

“Our boy is strong. I mean, he withstood you and your very _obvious_ attempts to show ‘im how unwelcome he was,” Porthos chuckled quietly, “If he endured that he’ll survive anything.”

Heat rose in Aramis’ cheeks, “I wasn’t that bad…”

“Oh you were…” Porthos nudged him lightly, “Not so much when Athos was around, but I saw you watching ‘im quite a few times, no one glowers quite like you, Aramis.”

“I just, I couldn’t understand how you both could trust him so implicitly… Not after where he came from, or what he did.”

Porthos just shrugged, eyes settling on d’Artagnan’s still face, “I mean… Athos said we should trust ‘im and trust Athos… But apart from that…” The big man sighed, “No one should be judged on where they came from, only where they’re going. d’Artagnan worked with us when it mattered so I gave ‘im the benefit of the doubt. Can’t say I regret it...”

“No… Neither do I…” Aramis nodded. The pair lapsed into a silence at Porthos watched over their youngest. Aramis allowed his mind to drift back to the last time he’d sat with Porthos at a bed side, only the last time it had been Athos in the hospital bed…

* * *

 

_“I shoulda’ been there…” Porthos’ gruff voice was thick with unshed tears. He scrubbed a big hand over his eyes, muffling his words, although not to the point Aramis couldn’t hear, “I shouldta’ left him alone in that bar. If I’d of stayed…”_

_“They would have taken him some other time,” Aramis soothed, his hand rubbing smooth circles on his friend’s shoulder blades, “This wasn’t some random opportunist, they wanted Athos. We can’t be together all the time..”_

_“But if I’d got the door combination wrong,” Porthos’ voice cracked, “If I’d gone into the wrong room or – or – if I’d hesitated his brother would have-“_

_“But you didn’t,” Aramis kept his voice smooth and low, “And he’s here. See? Porthos, look, Athos is fine…”_

_Porthos forced a look up, taking in their leader, still in the Medical Wing bed. Bruises and swelling peppered across his face and neck, one arm heavily bandaged and strapped to his chest._

_“Fine’s a strong word…”_

_Aramis opened his mouth to continue the gentle argument, when a low groan from the bed pulled both their attention._

_Athos’ head rolled slowly, eyes fluttering open and shut against the light._

_“Hey… Hey now…” Aramis leaned forward, touching his good shoulder gently, “Easy, Athos. You coming back to us?”_

_The low moan he received as a reply was one of the sweetest sounds Aramis had ever heard._

_“That’s it, good job. You’re coming round after surgery… The grogginess will pass.”_

_One of Athos’ eyes finally cracked opened, blinking as he focused on his friend._

_“S…surgery..?”_

_“It will come back, don’t worry,” Aramis carefully moved his hand to his friend’s hair, smoothing the greasy strands away from his face._

_“Gave us quite a scare, ya big lug…” Porthos offered his friend a watery smile… “Welcome back.”_

_“What…” Athos’ voice was dry like gravel, “What surgery?”_

_“Your elbow has been reconstructed, tendons and ligaments reattached and bones held together with pins…” Aramis explained, “It went well. The doctors have been very positive about your recovery.”_

_Athos’ brow furrowed as he took in everything Aramis was saying. It took a moment for him to process before he nodded._

_“Good.”_

_Aramis let the conversation lapse into silence to allow Athos’ memories to return. After a few minutes of thought Athos looked back to Aramis, a question on his lips._

_“My b- my brother?”_

_Aramis nodded, a sadness creeping into his gaze._

_“Thomas de La _Fère_ … It looks like he was behind your kidnap – Athos what are you doing?”_

_Athos had suddenly struggled up in bed on his one good arm, clumsily trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed._

_“Where’s d’Artagnan?”_

_Aramis sprang up with Porthos, two pairs of hands trying to keep Athos on the bed._

_“Athos you need to stay in bed – Athos you’re going to tug your stiches out!”_

_Porthos caught Aramis’ gaze over their friend’s head and mouthed ‘d’Artagnan?’ with a raised eyebrow. Aramis just shrugged, he had no idea either._

_“I need to see d’Artagnan, the kid with the man bun! Where -“ Athos froze suddenly, half inside the bed, “Where’s Treville?”_

_Now that? That was a question Aramis could answer._

_“I will get Treville, I can get him now, but only if you_ stay _in bed.”_

_Athos’ eyes narrowed, thinking the suggestion over, before he slipped compliantly back into bed. Aramis smiled at the small victory._

_“Right… I will get Treville, you stay here with Porthos and stay in bed…”_

* * *

 

The pair kept up their silent vigal until Athos arrived. Aramis looked up, the smile which had been manifesting freezing when he saw his friend’s face. Athos looked… Well there was no other word… He looked distraught. His eyes were wide, creased around the edges with the kind of sorrow which made Aramis’ stomach clench.

“Athos? Athos, what is it?”

But Athos just shook his head, a refusal to elaborate, and Aramis knew better than do push him. With a touch of to Porthos’ shoulder, he and Aramis moved out of the way to allow Athos through to the bedside.

From the side the pair watched as Athos approached the still figure. His gaze swept the bed, took in the still body and, after a moment of indecision, clasped his friends’ scarred hand between his own. He knelt, carefully as not to jostle the boy in the bed, and rested his head against their entwined fingers.

It was like there was suddenly a bubble around the pair, an invisible barrier which neither Porthos nor Aramis could get through. This moment, whatever had triggered it from Athos, was private and intimate. Aramis wanted to allow him that. He nodded towards the door at Porthos who frowned for a moment before nodding in understanding. He headed towards the door, Aramis only lingering for a moment.  He stepped forward and touched Athos carefully on the shoulder. His friend didn’t even move.

“We’ll, uh, give you some time. We’ll be outside if you need us.”

And with that he stepped back, out of their bubble and the door.

Athos didn’t say anything for a while. The rough hand between his own was warm, familiar and yet foreign all at the same time. How had this been allowed to happen? How had he not _known_?  d’Artagnan was theirs. Part of them, one of them. They should have known, they should have _searched_. d’Artagnan had been tortured for a full year and they hadn’t known. He’d been waiting for rescue and they hadn’t been looking.

A year’s worth of abuse had destroyed his youngest brother. Had he thought they hadn’t cared? That they’d abandoned him? How long had it taken for d’Artagnan to give up all hope of a rescue?

“I…” His voice was rough and raw. Every single layer of his defences had been stripped away until only emotion was left, “I lost you once…”

His eyes squeezed shut, hands shaking slightly even as they clasped d’Artagnan.

“I can’t lose you again…”

_“…but if he can’t get better…”_

The Captain’s words rung through Athos’ head and pulled a violent sob from his throat. His shoulders shuddered forcefully as the all the pain bottled up from the last year came tumbling out, tears thick and wet dribbling down his face and dampening the sheets.

Athos wasn’t sure how long he cried for, how long his broken hearted sobs filled the small room, but eventually his breaths began to even out into hiccups. His legs were asleep with pins and needles before he finally felt he could draw a steady breath again.

Even once he quietened Athos stayed on the floor, rough hand clasped between his, head rested on the thin mattress as he waited.

The room darkened as the day slipped away, shadows of the room elongating before merging into one long, dark blanket which settled over everything. Not that Athos really noticed. Somewhere along the way Athos’ eyes hadn’t so much closed as unfocused as he dozed, the stress of the emotional outburst leaving him wrung out and drained.

It a couple of quiet moans from the top of the bed that roused Athos back to full consciousness. At first he couldn’t place the noise, or the crick in his neck or the burn of his knees, but then realisation slammed into him, knocking him off balance with as much force as a sledge hammer.

“d’Art…” Athos coughed around the dry attempt at words as he released the hand. Immediately he missed the warmth. Kneecaps be damned Athos drew back, eyes focused on his friend’s face. His eyes were at half mast, unseeing as what ever nightmare played in his mind and terrorised him.

Another moan dripped from the younger man’s. A rattle of the restraints stole Athos’ attention. d’Artagnan’s hands were clenched into fists, tugging frantically at the restraints. A whine tore from his throat, one of a trapped, wild animal.

“d’Artagnan… d’Artagnan!”

Athos hauled himself up, watching his friend thrash in terror on the bed, fighting violently against his bonds.

Another whine sliced Athos right down to his core as he leaned forward, cupping his friend’s face gently in his hands. The skin was hot and clammy to the touch.

“You’re safe. I promise you’re safe but I need you to open your eyes, please. _Please._ ”

The whine turned to a whimper and to be honest Athos didn’t know which was worse.

“You’re safe… No one’s going to hurt you here but I _need_ you to open your eyes…”

The younger man let out another whimper but, finally, his eyes did open.  Athos suddenly wanted to cry again, but he couldn’t quite decide why. d’Artagnan had listened, which seemed like a small miracle in itself, but the fear he was met with shattered Athos’ heart.

_Oh d’Artagnan…_

“Good-“ Athos swallowed hard, worried his voice may betray him and break, “Good man…”

He withdrew his hands, realising such a touch may not be welcome and attempted to summon a smile.

“You’re safe here… I promise…”

d’Artagnan stopped fighting the bonds, but his eyes didn’t stop screaming. Athos had seen pretty much every emotion possible in those eyes over their years together; apprehension, amusement, anger, love… Never this though. Never terror… d’Artagnan might have heard his words but he didn’t believe them for one second.

Athos sat back heavily against Aramis’ old seat and those eyes followed him.

“I can’t _begin_ to know what you went through. d’Artagnan I’m sorry I… We really thought you were… d’Artagnan there was a body! Everyone thought you were gone…” Athos leant forward, desperation clawing the edges of his voice. He knew he was babbling but he couldn’t seem to stop, “I’m… I’m so, _so_ sorry. If I’d thought for a second you were alive I’d have never stopped –“

Athos’ head fell into his hands, his fingers taking up residence in his hair at the roots. Did any of this matter now? Would he have cared, had roles been reversed? Surely it didn’t matter why they had let him down, only that they had…

He blew out a breath in a long, frustrated, sigh. His head rolled to the side, looking back to d’Artagnan who’s eyes were still fixed fearfully on him.

“d’Artagnan…” Athos swallowed, realising there was only one real question which mattered, “What’s my name?” His stomach twisting and knotting in anticipation of whatever answer might be given.

d’Artagnan frowned ever so slightly, the question rolling around inside his head. Athos waited, _hoping_ , but then his eyes just slipped passed him. An admission of defeat. Of ignorance.

Athos’ stomach twisted with nausea. Treville couldn’t be right. He, he _couldn’t…_

_“…but if he can’t get better…”_

No! d’Artagnan was still in there.

“d’Artagnan, _look_ at me…” Athos swallowed back the lump which threatened push out of his throat in an overflow of emotion, “Really look… You saved my life once. Do you remember? When we first met?  We’re friends…  Best friends… What’s my name?”

d’Artagnan just blinked, taking Athos in like he was instructed, but there was nothing. No spark of realisation, no sudden recognition… There was nothing.

“Do you remember none of that?”

Nothing…

Athos fought back tears as d’Artagnan turned his head away. Had he… Given up? He scrubbed a hand through his hair, his steadfast belief quaking for the first time.

_“…but if he can’t get better…”_

“You’re… You’re tired d’Artagnan, you’ve been through a lot… I’ll leave you to get some rest.” Athos could feel his hands shake as he pushed himself from the chair. d’Artagnan didn’t even flinch.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow?”

Nothing.

Athos sighed. He turned towards the exit of the small room, desperate to get to somewhere where he could breakdown in peace.

_“…but if he can’t get better…”_

Athos paused by the door and looked back at the man in the bed. He was perfectly still. He could have easily been asleep if Athos didn’t know better.

“This doesn’t change anything…” Athos’ voice wafted out quietly from the door, “Alright? You’re one of us, d’Artagnan. We’ll never turn our back on you again. All for one… Remember that…”

Athos reached for the doorknob. If he’d have coughed he’d have missed it. The words were small, whispered out from the bed like the smallest of promises.

“All for one…”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I'd hoped to get this out before my trip down to London, but between prepping for that and the end of term time just evapourated!   
> On the plus side I did get to go see "Reasons to be Happy" with our favourite Mr Burke - so exciting!!
> 
> Anyways! Enough excuses, on with the chapter!

They only had forty-eight hours. Richelieu knew the law perfectly well. Forty-eight hours and, when they didn’t have enough to charge him, he’d we walking out the door.

Richelieu pondered about where he would go when he was released. He had contacts in England, but extradition would too easy from there… Switzerland seemed like the obvious choice, it was the closest to France, but then he had never been a fan of the cold.

Maybe somewhere warm? Dubai perhaps. Or Qatar. Richelieu knew he had enough money and contacts to make a perfectly comfortable life in any of those countries, maybe even start again… His options were endless and as soon as Olivier and his band of merry men give up on their fool’s errand he could fully realise them.

Because, wherever he decided on going, it would need to be quickly. In fact, Richelieu was tempted to walk out of custody and straight onto a train. It didn’t matter _where_ initially, anywhere away from these people would do. He wouldn’t give them a chance to arrest him again. What was the expression? Fool me once…?

Richelieu stretched out on cell’s bed, his old bones creaking in protest to the hard surface. How many hours did those morons have left? They had to be over the half way point by now. Richelieu just had to wait them out, wait for his release. Because they had nothing, absolutely nothing to pin on him, nothing to charge him with. Their star witness would be dead by now and no one would dare take Deniau’s place. There was Charles, who could perhaps be called a loose end, but Richelieu wasn’t worried. He had broken the boy himself, knew just how deep that conditioning went. No, there was no reason to be concerned…

He just had to wait.

Twenty-four hours and he’d be walking back to his freedom and, when that happened, they would never find him again.

* * *

 

“It’s like everything’s foggy… I see faces and I think I know them but… But it’s like they’re through water, or distorted glass. I know the outline but can’t remember how…”

Athos was back in his seat, listening to d’Artagnan as he had slowly begun to speak. He was careful not to push, not to overpower with too many questions, just to listen to whenever d’Artagnan wished to reveal.

“And how about now… Is my face still distorted? Do you recognise it?”

D’Artagnan paused, brows furrowed in thought. After a moment of hesitation he nodded.

“I remember you saying those words before… I remember playing them over and over in my head. They helped… They made me forget.”

It seemed as though Athos had found the magic words, found a way into d’Artagnan’s locked up mind. His eyes still avoided his old mentor’s, but that was something to worry about later. Right now, hearing his voice was enough.

“What did you need to forget, d’Artagnan?”

There was a beat of silence where Athos just waited. He thought for a second that it had been a question too far, but then…

“Pain.”

The one syllable word made Athos’ heart drop into his stomach. He wanted to hold d’Artagnan, to cry with him and apologise again and again for what he’d been put through.

But that wouldn’t work. That would be for Athos’ own benefit and this wasn’t about him.

“Where did,” Athos paused to swallow in an effort to keep his voice level, “Where did the pain come from..?”

d’Artagnan flinched, his eyes fixed straight ahead into what seemed like thin air. Clearly there was something which Athos wasn’t seeing.

“Fire…”

Athos’ mind slid back to their earlier conversation with Lemay. There were so many burns to the young man’s body, old and new, so many injuries… Athos only knew a tiny part of the larger story.

“A beam fell on my arm…” d’Artagnan’s good hand reached up to traced his bare, scarred, shoulder, as if to prove to himself there was nothing there, but was caught by the shackles. He tugged at them in frustration. “I… I couldn’t move. There was fire everywhere I –“

Athos watched as d’Artagnan’s hands began to shake, his eyes widening as he lost himself inside the painful memories.  Athos couldn’t decide if he should intervene and considered calling Lemay for a sedative, but then d’Artagnan seemed to calm. His hand clenched, tugging again at the bonds, before sinking back, beaten. Athos swallowed.

“d’Artagnan, I’d like to take those cuffs off you, but I need to know you aren’t going to try to attack me…”

He watched d’Artagnan consider the matter, his hands opening and closing. The silence left Athos wondering whether the offer had been a step too far. But then the younger man gave a nod. He raised his hands up, offering up his wrists.

“Please…”

Athos leant forward and carefully undid the leather buckles on each wrist. He left the ankles untouched. Of course if d’Artagnan had been lying those bonds wouldn’t stop him for long, but it would be enough to get a sedative into the boy’s IV line.

The restraints fell against the sides of the bed with a clatter as d’Artagnan’s good hand encircled his scarred wrist. He picked at the white bandage which had been placed there, frowning in confusion.

“Aramis must have put those on to protect your skin. He probably didn’t want to make your scars worse.”

_Aramis…_ Athos watched the word roll silently off d’Artagnan’s tongue. Something flickered across his gaze which stole Athos’ notice.

“Does that name sound familiar too?”

D’Artagnan nodded again.

“Where from?”

“I used to say it too… In my head, when there was pain.”

The revelation was a surprise, but Athos clung to it like a life line.

“Were there others?”

A nod.

“Do you remember any of them?”

A shake of the head, “They’re… Foggy too…”

Well that made sense. Disappointing, but it did make sense.  Perhaps with a nudge…

“How about I tell you a list of names, and you can let me know if you remember any of them, foggy or not. How does that sound?”

“Yes…” d’Artagnan agreed, voice small, “okay.”

“Right…” Athos clasped his fingers together in front of him.

“Matthew?”

“Peatre?”

“Jean-Luc?”

“Porthos?”

D’Artagnan frowned, the name rolling over his tongue just like Aramis’.

“I know that one.”

“Good,” Athos nodded, “That’s good… Now you have two names. Anything to go with them?”

Athos, to be honest, wasn’t really expecting much. d’Artagnan’s memory seemed too splintered to remember specifics about his life before, but then his mouth opened again.

“We were all friends, weren’t we?”

Athos felt like crying. The memory was a good one, a solid one which he hadn’t expected. But the past tense was like a knife straight between the ribs. _Were…_

Speaking seemed like a risk in that moment, the lump in his throat threatened to bubble over, but it would be worse leave d’Artagnan hanging with that thought over his head.

“The best,” Athos forced a smile, but he was fairly sure this came out like a grimace. Maybe it was best d’Artagnan wouldn’t look at him, “We’re a team. You and Porthos and Aramis and I. The four of us… Do you remember _any_ of it?”

The look d’Artagnan gave was full of hesitation which made his friend sigh.

“Let me guess… Is it foggy?”

A nod was all Athos received. d’Artagnan seemed to slump back against his pillows, giving up. Athos couldn’t really be surprised. To have memories so close, and yet out of reach, much be both infuriating and exhausting.

“You’re doing really well, d’Artagnan,” Athos had meant it to sound like an encouragement, but it came out a little patronising. d’Artagnan may well have thought the same, because his face, which up until that point had been focused in front, turned instead to the wall.

Athos took it as his cue to leave. He stood up and, after only a moment of indecision, placed a hand on his younger friend’s shoulder. d’Artagnan didn’t react.

“Get some rest. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, maybe Aramis and Porthos can come too?”

He pushed the chair back carefully and stepped away from the bed. He paused for a heartbeat, watching his friend.

“It’s good to have you back, d’Artagnan,” He murmured, then disappeared from the little room.

* * *

 

Porthos and Aramis might have been banished from the d’Artagnan’s medical room, but they hadn’t gone far. There was evidence to re-catalogue and comb through on the off chance _something_ could be pinned on Richelieu. It was a long shot – the man was too careful to let anything stick to him – but anything at this point was worth a try.

How long was left on the clock? Twenty-two hours? Twenty-two hours before they would be forced to release that murdering son-of-a…

Porthos sat back on his heels and rubbed a heavy hand over his tired eyes. He shot a look at his friend, who to the average onlooker would seem fine, but to the well trained eye looked just as exhausted. Aramis Might hide his fatigue better, but Porthos knew what to look for. The dark, loose curls which usually bounced perfectly in every direction now seemed to sag, from a hand been drawn through them one too many times. His eyes didn’t get bags exactly, but they did narrow when he was tired, as if Aramis was concentrating constantly. The last sign was the little huffs Aramis would blow out between his teeth every so often to keep himself on task.

One was usually a good enough sign of Aramis’ fatigue. This time, however, Porthos noted all three.

With a sigh Porthos set down his clip board, “Are we waistin’ our time here?”

Aramis looked up from his spot on the floor of the evidence locker.

“What do you mean?”

Porthos offered a shrug, “Everthin’s already been looked through. There’s nothin’ here. Richelieu’s too clever to be tied to any of this…”

“Something could have been missed?” Aramis’ eyes flicked over another list of seized contraband.

“Musketeers looked over this lot… They don’t make mistakes.”

Aramis looked up, “I… I can’t sit back and do nothing. If Samara can’t get another Guard to flip on Richelieu then we’re going to lose the Bastard!” With a mutter in Spanish Aramis tossed the file to the floor. His hand savagely took root in his wild curls, elbow on knees.

“I feel helpless and I don’t like it…”

“I know…” Porthos sighed, “Me neither…”

The two lapsed into silence, which was only broken by the door to the evidence room being pushed open. Both heads swivelled to the intruder.

“Athos!” A tired smile broke across Aramis’ face as he scrambled to his feet, “How are – How is-“

“He’s awake,” Athos confirmed, leaning his back tiredly against the wall, “And he’s started speaking.”

Porthos and Aramis wore matching looks of surprise, so Athos just continued. He retold the whole encounter, the way _all for one_ had breathed fresh air into d’Artagnan, the way he’d rolled their names over his tongue as if to test them, the way he’d described the burning beam which had pinned him during the fire…

By the time Athos came to the end of his recount he felt drained. Living it had been hard enough, having to re-tell the story was just bad but Porthos and Aramis had every right to know about their teammate.

“Do we know what the chances are of his memories returning completely?” Aramis asked finally after Athos had lapsed into silence.

Athos offered a shrug, “I don’t think there’s any way to tell… Time will do him good, consistency too maybe –“

The door opened again, distracting the group. Well _opened_ was not the correct term. Slammed was more accurate. All three heads snapped to towards the noise and were surprised to see their commander standing in the doorway. Treville’s eyes narrowed onto his target, fury bubbling _just_ beneath the surface.

“I need the room,” Treville snapped the words towards Aramis and Porthos without letting his eyes move from Athos. Athos just blinked, his mind whirling as he attempted to remember what he had done.

“Out.”

The men hesitated but knew better than disobey a direct order when their Captain was like this.

“We’ll be in the office,” Aramis muttered to their friend as they passed on their way out of the room. Porthos just offered a pat to his arm. The door shut behind them with a snap and Athos was alone under Treville’s wrath. It took a great deal of effort not to flinch.

Treville pointed to the single chair in the room, pulled out from a table which was piled high with boxes.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather stand,” Athos stretched himself to full height with his arms crossed over his chest. He met Treville’s glare with his own gaze, refusing to look away even when a fresh wave of fury crashed at the refusal.

Athos expected Treville begin his tirade, to unleash his wrath about whatever Athos had done. Instead he just remained silent as he dug into his pocket. He pulled out a small, plastic object and sat it on a box between them.

Athos frowned, “What the _Hell_ is this?”

The empty urine sample cup stood between, as loud as any accusation. Treville fished into another pocket and set a familiar orange canister next to the cup. Suddenly Athos’ mouth felt dry.

“If you’re using again,” Treville’s voice was eerily calm, a direct contrast to the glare which had Athos’ feet nailed to the floor, “If you have thrown over 10 years of clean living into the gutter, I’ll have your badge and clearance revoked before you even make it to the front door.”

“You’re wanting to talk about this _now_?” Athos finally found his voice again, spitting the words out in disgust, “We have less than twenty-four hours to nail Richelieu to the wall before he walks and you want to bring up ancient history?”

“When I’m not convinced it _is_ ancient history, yes,” Treville watched the man, his eyes narrowing as he watched his second in command’s reaction. When he’d seen the abandoned canister in combat gym, the last person he had expected for them to belong to was Athos. He knew fine well that Athos had marked himself unsuitable for oral pain relief, so the only reason for there to be a canister of with his name on it was through a request.

Treville could remember Athos’ withdrawal all those years ago, those days were seared into his memory even if Athos had apparently forgotten…

_“I can’t do this!” Olivier’s body folded in on itself, every muscle in spasm as Treville wrapped arm around his shoulders, holding the quivering figure close, “Jean I can’t do this! I was wr-wrong. Please – Please I need something, anything! Please I need to take the edge off!”_

_The boy stunk of sweat and vomit, hair slick and stuck to his pale forehead, and Treville held him all the same._

_“You can…” The older man soothed, his mouth very close to his ear so there was no way Olivier could miss it over his own cries, “You are stronger than this, stronger than those pills. You’re doing so well…. I know you can do this.”_

_“I can’t-“ Olivier howled, “I can’t! Why are you making me do this?” Olivier’s body lurched forward, as if to break away from Treville, but the older man kept a tight hold, “This is torture, you’re torturing ME!”_

_Olivier had said worse, called him worse. Treville took no notice. It wasn’t Olivier talking, it was the addiction._

_“You’re doing so well, Olivier…” Treville repeated yet again, holding tight to Olivier as he convulsed in his arms, “You can beat this…”_

Treville pushed the memory aside. Athos wasn’t Olivier, hadn’t been Olivier in a long, _long_ , time. He was a soldier now and knew the penalty of a positive drugs test.

“I want a sample and an explanation,” Treville demanded, pointing to the canister, “Before I order you removed from the Garrison.”

Athos actually flinched at the threat.

“You can’t do that.”

Richelieu’s conviction was hung in the balance, d’Artagnan’s mental stability seemed to be so fragile, and Treville wanted to send him away?

Treville offered back a hard glare, “If I think you are compromised for a second I won’t hesitate.”

As much as Athos loathed to admit it Treville had him in a corner. Stubbornness would do him no good.

He let out a harsh sigh, running a savagely through his hair.

“I haven’t taken any, alright? I’ve had then for over a year – look at the date! The seal might be broken but they’re all there.”

“Why did you even _have_ them?” Treville snapped back.

“I got given them the night d’Artagnan died!” Athos, beaten, sank down heavily into the chair he’d previously refused. He propped a foot on a nearby box, a hand rubbing over his eyes, “I discharged myself after the explosion. Some doctor offered me the pills and I said _no_ but they put them in my bag anyway and I found them at home and –“

Athos’ head dropped backwards with a groan.

“I haven’t taken any! It was just good too – good to know I had them if it all became too much.”

“In case what came too much?”

“The guilt!” The word came out as a heart broken gasp, “The knowledge that I’d got d’Artagnan killed. Now the guilt that I left him with that man for a whole year! I just needed to know I had the option…”

Treville sighed. The man seemed honest, and he liked to think he knew enough of Athos’ tells for him not to be bluffing, but the fact remained that he had to be sure. He reached forward and gathered up both the canister and cup. He placed the former into his suit pocket and held the latter out to Athos.

“A sample, and then we can both move on.”

* * *

 

One negative piss test later and Treville let Athos go, without the canister of pills being returned. There wasn’t an apology, but Athos hadn’t expected one. Instead he just put as much room between himself and his Captain as possible. That meant the Unit two office.

Aramis looked up from his desk, the question of what Treville had wanted, but Athos got there first.

“Where’s Porthos?” He asked, slumping down at his own desk.

“Samara called,” Aramis shook his head at Athos’ hopeful expression, “She couldn’t get any of them talking… Porthos went to check on her – think she’s taking it personally…”

“She has no reason to. If anyone’s to blame it’s the prison guards who let Deniau get stabbed on their watch.”

Aramis nodded, “I expect he’s going to say as much… I’m just waiting back on a lawyer friend of mine, I wanted to get a second opinion on whether we can include Deniau’s original interview as testimony….”

At Athos’ raised eyebrow Aramis just shrugged, “I know, I know… It’s a long shot but I need to feel like I’m doing something.”

“No,” Athos shook his head as he leaned back in his chair, “I didn’t mean that more… You have friends? Apart from us?”

“You cheeky  –“ Aramis snorted with laughter, grabbing a pen from his desk and seemed about to throw it at Athos’ head before thinking better of it. He offered a tired smile, tapping the pen against the wooden desk, “I feel like I haven’t laughed like that in years…”

The honestly in those words hit home for Athos, who nodded in absolute agreement.

“This last few days have been rather long…”

Aramis sighed quietly, the smile disappearing from his lips just as quickly as it had arrived.

“I just thought this would feel different. Richelieu’s in custody, d’Artagnan’s back with us... It should feel like winning.”

“But we haven’t won,” Athos pointed out. He grabbed a water bottle and cracked open the cap, “Not yet.” Yet… Or ever…

“Yea… I guess…” Aramis looked back to his friend, a question on his lips and a glint in his eye which likely meant mischief, “And I suppose after that little display earlier you and Ninon are obliteratingly finished?”

Athos, who had just taken a gulp of water, had to fight back the urge to spit the mouthful all over his lap top.

“W-what?” Athos finally got out once he had swallowed his mouthful, “How the hell – I mean –“

Aramis crossed his arms, eyes flicking back to his phone as if to check he hadn’t missed the call.

“I came to see you the night of the funeral, after the wake. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t face down in a puddle of wine vomit… But when I got there I could see you two through your living room window… Looks like she got there first…”

Athos just blinked, dumbfounded, as Aramis went back to stabbing keys on his own lap top. Only a small smirk on his face betrayed that he was rather impressed with himself for rattling his friend.

“You’ve known for a year and not said –“

“Not my business is it?” Aramis looked up to meet Athos’ unconvinced gaze. Athos knew full well that his friend would never normally pass up an opportunity to make fun of him. Aramis offered a shrug, “Fine, fine… I just, well she was clearly helping you. I didn’t want to get in the way of that.”

Athos frowned a little at his friend’s sudden maturity, more than a little dumbstruck.

“I… Thank you…”

Aramis looked like he was about to say more, but was cut off by the buzz of Athos’ phone. He grabbed the hand set to answer it.

“Yes?”

Athos muttered a string of curses and shoved his chair back. Aramis looked up in confusion.

“Shi-yes I’m coming! Don’t sedate – No don’t sedate him! Not until I’m –“

The call ended and Athos shoved the phone savagely back into his pocket.

“What’s going on-“ Aramis said, rising from his own seat. He grabbed his own phone and fell into step behind Athos, who was already at the door.

“Something’s going on in the Medical wing!” Athos, the moment he was in the corridor, broke into a run.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but I'm offering my appology in the form of an early update! Am I forgiven?
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

They heard the chaos before they saw it. Shouts laced with panic and pressure echoed along the wide corridor Athos and Aramis hammered down it. Aramis reached the door first and wrenched it opened, allowing Athos through. The anarchy they were met with centred around d’Artagnan’s bed. The young man thrashed violently against the mattress, two research physicians trying to physically restrain him as he flailed and kicked. d’Artagnan’s eyes fluttered at half-mast as he cried out again. The howl which tore from the young man put Athos’ hackles up as he stormed across the room.

“Enough. ENOUGH!” Athos grabbed one of the men and hurled him backwards, shooting a glare at the other which forced him into a retreat.

“Sir you requested we didn’t sedate him –“

“That doesn’t mean pin him down!” Athos carefully approached the bed. d’Artagnan, thankfully, had stopped howling, his shouts boiling down to whines and twitches.

“Morons – he’s having a nightmare, do you have _any_ concept of what he’s been through?”

Athos ignored the fact that technically he didn’t know what d’Artagnan had been through and instead squatted down by the head of the bed. His hand came down to gently rest on the younger man’s hairline.

“d’Artagnan it’s not real,” Athos assured he shaking figure quietly, “Open your eyes. It’s me. You know me. You’re safe…” His hand carefully pushed his friend’s hair back from his forehead. The whimper this time was smaller, followed by shudder which made Athos’ stomach twist with nausea.

“It’s not real, I promise. Come back to me,” Athos forced his voice to stay level, stay constant, “Open your eyes… You’re safe…”

d’Artagnan’s brows came together in a frown, his mouth moving wordlessly around the word safe. One more shudder wracked his body before, finally, d’Artagnan’s eyes cracked open. Clouded by sleep and confusion his brown eyes look in his surroundings before settling on his friend’s face.

Their gaze locked in a way d’Artagnan hadn’t allowed during their meeting and Athos drank him in. Those eyes which seemed simultaneously so familiar and yet so different. Older somehow… Haunted.

But there was a spark as well. A small, _blink-and-you’d-miss-it,_ kind of spark. It wasn’t the blaze of the Charles he’d met all those years ago or the inferno of the d’Artagnan who was as stubborn as hell, but it was the smallest spark of recognition, of his old self.

“ ’thos..?” The word was a croak, barely loud enough to be heard out-with the bubble of two, but it caused a broken smile to take over Athos’ lined face.

“Yea-“ Athos coughed to cover the quiver of emotion in his voice, “Yea... It’s me. It’s good to see you d’Artagnan.”

Athos watched with a lump in his throat as d’Artagnan’s eyes squeezed closed, the traitor tears leaking out around his lashes.

“Hey-hey it’s okay…” Athos fell forward from his crouched position to his knees, and guided d’Artagnan’s face gently to the crook of his neck. One arm wrapped softly around his friend’s broad shoulders, the other hand anchoring itself into dark hair. d’Artagnan stiffened for a moment, before dissolving into sobs against his friend’s shoulder.

“It’s okay…” Athos murmured into the hair just above d’Artagnan’s ear. His thumb stroked across the crown of the younger man’s head, creating a reassuring rhythm in the same way Treville had done for him all those years ago. “You’re okay. I promise….”

He continued to offer the little promises as his friend sobbed, whispering over him until eventually d’Artagnan sagged in exhaustion. Even once he had quietened Athos didn’t push him away, didn’t push him to talk. Instead he just waited until d’Artagnan was ready.

When he was, the voice which was offered was heartbroken.

“It was you…”

“What was me, d’Artagnan?”

“The man in the warehouse – I couldn’t remember the face before. I couldn’t remember who… It was you,” Athos felt his friend’s breath hitch against his throat and shudder against him. He just tightened his grip.

“I held a knife to your throat! I would have killed you, I would have – how can you _be_ here? Why haven’t you arrested me?“

Athos carefully drew back. He pushed a hand into d’Artagnan’s dark hair, forcing it away from his tear stained face so he could look him in the eye.

“I’m here because you’re my brother…”  Athos looked passed d’Artagnan’s scarred face, passed the hurt in his eyes, passed all the fine lines of stress and hurt which had sprung up over their year apart, to the boy he’d met so long ago. Charles, the Charles Athos had known, not the machine Richelieu had made. The boy who’d lived on a nervous edge, always on guard, always waiting for someone to hurt him, to push him away. Athos realised with a sick feeling that d’Artagnan was on edge because of him, waiting for _him_ to push him away.

Well that wasn’t going to happen.

“Because you’re hurting and that that kills me. Because you didn’t want to hurt me anymore than I wanted to lose you…”

d’Artagnan just shook his head.

“You _can’t_ forgive something like-“

“Do you forgive me?” Athos cut across him. He held his friend’s gaze, watching as d’Artagnan eyes creased in confusion while Athos pressed on, “I left you with that man for over a year. I mourned and let myself crumble instead of looking for you, instead of finding you!”

“You thought I was dead… Why would you look for a dead person?”

“I should have known, I gave up when I had no right to do so,” Athos insisted, “Now do you forgive me?”

d‘Artagnan just blinked for a moment, his lids heavy and swollen, as he thought, “Yes.”

Athos offered a sad half smile and drew back, resting on his heels, “Then I forgive you.”

“But-“

“Then I _forgive_ you,” Athos emphasised the word, implying a closure to the topic. If he didn’t then he had a suspicion it would go on for hours. d’Artagnan needed to know he was forgiven, even if he didn’t feel it in that moment. Maybe, at some point, he’d even be able to forgive himself.

“Now, do you think you’re up to sitting up? I think there’s someone here who’s desperate so speak to you-“ But d’Artagnan was already moving. Something _darker_ flashed across his gaze, something more disturbing. He shoved himself up on his scarred arm and attempted to tug his feet over the side of the bed. The restraints stopped him in his tracks, which caused d’Artagnan to frown down at his ankles. He tugged at them again.

“I need to-“

“Need to what d’Artagnan?” Athos nodded to Aramis, who until then had been hovering in the background to give the pair some privacy, to undo the restraints, “Where do you need to go?”

“I need to – where is he?” The moment d‘Artagnan was free he forced himself to stand, the sheet falling away to reveal the extent of his scars as he stood in nothing but a pair of shorts. The man had been horizontal for over a day, and swayed on his feet to reflect that. Aramis stepped forward as and placed a steadying hand on d’Artagnan’s elbow.

“Who d’Artagnan? Who are you looking for?”

Athos straightened to full height and realised with a start that d’Artagnan was glaring with more life in his eyes than they’d seen since d‘Artagnan had returned.

“What is it d’Artagnan?”

“Richelieu.” D’Artagnan growled out, passion turning to fire as the word passed his lips, “Where is he?”

* * *

 

D’Artagnan, clothed in a dark pair of Aramis’ tracksuit bottoms and zipped hooded sweatshirt, stood flanked by his friends. Aramis’ shoulder brushed against his, with Porthos on his other side. It was the only way Athos had even considered allowing d’Artagnan _anywhere_ near the man who’d be brought to the other side of the glass. They had called Porthos and Treville and gone as a group, a unit. A family.

“You don’t have to be here…” Aramis reminded the younger man again, as if he’d somehow forgotten in the last few minutes.

“I know.”

“If this is going to be too much, too soon… No one will begrudge you for stepping back.”

“You’ve got less than twenty hours left to charge or release him…” d’Artagnan’s eyes didn’t waver from empty room through the one way mirror. _Not long now._ “What are the chances of being able to charge him if I don’t do this?”

“There’s still time to come up with some-“ Aramis began but Porthos cut across words.

“Next to none.”

Aramis glared at his friend, but Porthos saw no reason to sugar coat what d’Artagnan already knew.

“But we’d never force ya into this,” Porthos’ hand settles reassuringly on d’Artagnan’s upper arm. He couldn’t stop his flinch, but after the initial discomfort he relaxed into touch, “Nothin’ is worth you getting’ hurt. Even hammerin’ Richelieu.”

d’Artagnan wasn’t sure what to say, although didn’t have to come up with something as the door on the other side of the window pane opened. His back stiffened in preparation, his jaw clamping down as he Richelieu was brought through the door. The man couldn’t see him, d’Artagnan _knew_ that, but for a moment he couldn’t breathe. His skin prickled, intensifying into a burn as memories bombarded him, a shudder rolling through his body.

_“Tell me who you belong to, Charles!”_

_“You’re mine! You’ll always be mine!”_

_“Say it and the pain can stop…”_

“We can stop this.” Treville’s voice rumbled from behind him as Richelieu was led to the metal table and handcuffed down, “Just say the word.”

But d’Artagnan wasn’t listening. His throat felt like it was closing. The newest burns on his arm ignited as if the lighter was still pressed into his skin. The shuddering turned into shakes, his eyes unable to tear themselves from the man who’d broken him down for over a year.

“d’Artagnan…” Aramis voice barely registered over the roaring in his ears, “d’Artagnan are you with us?”

When he didn’t reply Aramis’ gaze snapped back to their commander, “Treville pull the plug, now.”

But then door opened and closed again as Athos stepped into the room. Suddenly d’Artagnan could draw breath.

“No!” d’Artagnan shook his head as Athos stepped toward the man, “No. It’s good… I’m, I’m good…”

The group of four fell silence as Athos crossed his arms over his chest and looked over the old man in front of him.

Richelieu just raised an eyebrow, “Ready to admit defeat and release me yet, Olivier?”

“Oh? And why would I do that?”

“I know the law well enough to know you’ve got less than a 20 hours left to charge me, and since that’s not going to happen, why don’t we just speed things up and release these cuffs?”

d’Artagnan watched his mentor as his lips quirked in the smallest of smiles. The movement was slight, subtle, and completely unnerving to the man across from him.

“Of course… I suppose gossip doesn’t spread as far as the holding cells...”

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed, “And what _gossip_ have I missed?”

Athos offered the smallest of nods. d’Artagnan knew that was his signal. Suddenly he forgot how to move. His legs were frozen, rooted to the spot. He knew the plan, he knew what was supposed to happen, but he couldn’t, couldn’t…

“Ya don’t have to do this,” Porthos muttered next to him.

“I-“ d’Artagnan was on the cusp of backing out. Of calling the whole thing off. To run and put as much space between him and that man as possible, “I-“

But then, somehow, d’Artagnan could have sworn Athos caught his eye. That would be impossible. Athos couldn’t even _see_ him through the one way mirror. And yet? That little moment of eye was all d’Artagnan needed to remind him he could do this, to find his feet again. He stepped forward and, reluctantly, Aramis pulled the adjoining door open for him. With a deep breath in d‘Artagnan stepped into the interrogation room. Old, cold eyes clamped onto him and suddenly d’Artagnan felt like he was spiralling.

_Fire._

_Pain._

_“Who do you belong to?”_

_Burning._

But then Athos’ hand found his arm, drawing him to his side and extinguishing the panic. d’Artagnan swallowed.

_Settle. Centre yourself and settle._

“What the hell is this?” The bravado slide from Richelieu’s face. Cracks began to streak down his confidence, discomfort prickling along his shoulders, “Are you meant to scare me, Charles?”

_Pain._

_Burning._

_I belong to you…_

But there was Athos’ hand again, a small, reassuring touch to keep him grounded to reality.

“I’m not Charles.” His mouth felt dry, moments away from a crack, but at least his head stayed high.

Anger flared up as Richelieu lunged forward. d’Artagnan was about to take a flinch back, when Richelieu was cut short. The clank of the chains as they were pulled tight reminded d’Artagnan of who was in charge. He wasn’t the one to be chained anymore.

“So this is your big idea, Olivier?” The old man sneered, “Using my own lap dog against me. It will be his word against mine, if he can even pass a phyc eval. You’ll never get a conviction from this!”

_Lap dog…_ d’Artagnan fought the urge to throw up. He was trying to take control back, d’Artagnan reminded himself a little shakily. That’s what a dog does when it’s backed into a corner; it bites.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.” This time d’Artagnan’s voice was stronger. Athos practically glowed with pride by his side.

“You think I am that easily forgotten?” Richelieu sneered, tugging at his bonds again which refused to budge, “You think you can forget what you became. You would have killed Olivier twice over if it wasn’t for sheer dumb luck! I made you! I moulded you into the weapon I needed, you’ll never be more than that!”

And there was the opening d’Artagnan needed.

“You didn’t mould me. You tortured me! You denied me pain relief and medical attention, you burned my body over and over because I wouldn’t give you what you wanted.”

“And didn’t you scream,” Richelieu’s eyes twisted in a sadistic satisfaction, “You howled and begged and held on for so long before admitting who you belonged to. Fire does amazing things to even the most stubborn of men. Even they can be broken.”

Memories exploded in response to Richelieu’s words. The scorch of the burns, cruel laughter.

_“Who do you belong too?”_

But d’Artagnan, despite his shaking hands, shook his head. “You didn’t break me.”

“Oh but I did Charles!” Richelieu smiled, the sinister curl of his lip making Athos’ stomach clench in fury, “You might have been stubborn, but I broke you. Fire breaks everyone. You begged for the pain to stop, promised whatever I wanted. I broke you and you are mine!”

The shaking was getting worse, the memories were getting stronger. d’Artagnan could feel his grip on reality weakening as the memories threatened to overpower him.

But then Athos was there, a firm hand on his shoulder to anchor him in the moment, while his other hand dug into his pocket.

“And that’s just about enough I think,” Athos drew a small silver recording device from his pocket and twirled it between his fingers, “That’s plenty for the trial.”

Richelieu’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flaring in anger, as he looked at the object in Athos’ hands.

“You _recorded_ this?”

“We read you your rights, you’ve not asked for a lawyer,” Athos, once he was sure d’Artagnan was fully back with them, removed his hands to cross them over his chest, “It is completely within our rights to record any conversations during custody to build a case.”

“What case?” Richelieu spat, “I’ve not admitted to anything! You have _no_ case.”

“Perhaps we can’t prove you are the piece of filth behind the Guard,” Waves of apparent disinterest rolled off Athos, as if the whole conversation was boring him, “We can continue to work on that. But the kidnapping and torture of a government official? That carries a sentence of at _least_ 10 years, plenty of time for us to build a case.”

For a moment Richelieu just stared, dumbfounded, as he retraced everything he had said and realised the rope he had just looped around his own neck.

With a snarl Richelieu snapped forward, a growl tearing from deep in his throat as the chains stopped him.

“I’ll kill you – kill you both, I’ll –“

“And I wish you luck with that,” Athos passed the recorder to d’Artagnan, a small blessing to allow the man an escape from the room, “Take that to Treville while I put this piece of shit back in a holding cell.”

d’Artagnan swallowed, his hands slipped around the silver recorder. Athos was offering him an escape, and he was going to take it. He turned, only a few feet from the door, when Richelieu’s voice filled the room again.

“You’re mine, Charles. You’ll always be mine! I own you, you’ll never be one of them! You’ll always be my weapon, Charles!”

d’Artagnan paused, hand clutching at the door knob like it was his only life line, the words crashing over him like a heavy wave, threatening drowning.

_“Who do you belong to?”_

_“Say it!”_

_“Say my name and the pain will stop.”_

_“Say it!”_

But no. Not anymore. Not again.

d’Artagnan forced himself to take a deep breath in, to fill his lungs and minimise the tremors in his hand. He twisted the handle, but before he stepped through turned, eyed making contact with Richelieu one more time.

“My name is d’Artagnan.”

He didn’t wait for a reply as he fled from the room.

* * *

 

It should have felt better, Athos mused. Richelieu was charged, his bail had been denied, and would be locked up for twenty hours a day independent from the rest of the gen pop.

They should be celebrating. They won. But…

Athos watched his younger friend as he slept on his bed in the Medical wing. The exchange had left him emotionally drained, and to be honest that wasn’t surprising. Going face to face with his captor would have taken all the courage d’Artagnan could have mustered. He would need some time to process that. He had been eerily quiet since d’Artagnan had lain down, and had slipped into sleep not long after. That had been a good three hours ago.

Perhaps it wouldn’t feel like winning until d’Artagnan’s eyes stopped clouding over with painful memories at the mere mention of that man.

Athos had pulled up a chair by the bedside, watching over the still form in case of nightmares. The man, however, had been almost completely still. Not a moan, not a whimper. All things considered, d’Artagnan seemed to be sleeping pretty soundly.

A cough from behind him made Athos turn in his chair. Aramis stood at the door, beckoning his friend with a quick hand gesture. He hesitated for a moment, looking back to his friend in the bed. He didn’t want to leave him alone, but rationally he knew d’Artagnan would be fine with him only one room away.

“I’ll be back,” He promised the sleeping man as he stood up quietly. The figure didn’t stir as Athos quietly exited the room.

He made sure the door was closed before turned to Aramis.

“How is he?” Aramis asked before Athos could get his own question out.

“Drained,” Athos with a sigh, “Confronting Richelieu took a lot out of him…”

“This whole thing has taken a lot out of him,” Aramis lent himself against the plain wall behind him, “What he did this morning was amazing but… Seeing Richelieu today can’t have been easy for him, or maybe even good for him…”

Athos frowned, “Not good for him?”

Aramis shrugged, “His recovery. Could have gone one of two ways… Seeing Richelieu might have been too much, you know? But it seems to have helped, which is… Well it’s good…” Aramis’ voice trailed off, his hand fidgeting with something in his suit jacket pocket.

Athos raised an eyebrow, “Is there something else?”

“Well, yes…” Aramis nodded, his hand slid towards his pocket. He tugged out a small object from its resting place. He held it out for Athos to see.

The older man frowned, “Where did you –“ His hand reached out, his eyes focused on the thin gold wedding band, threaded onto a silver chain. Aramis tipped the piece of jewellery into his friend’s hand.

“I noticed it in the evidence log from Richelieu’s office. Thought it couldn’t be the same one, I mean the chances of him keeping it were next to none, but…” Aramis paused for a moment to let Athos examine the small band in his peace. “It’s his, I know it’s his.”

“You’re right…” Athos murmured, threading the links around his fingers so he the ring rested against the backs of his fingers, “It’s d’Artagnan’s.”

“Should we - I mean – do we give it to him?”

Athos frowned, “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well he hasn’t mentioned her!” The words came bubbling out Aramis, as if he’d been thinking on it for a while. “Constance, he hasn’t even spoken her name since he woke up.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember her,” Athos reasoned carefully. He turned the ring over between his fingers, remembering the day he’d watched Constance slide this ring onto d’Artagnan’s finger, “This could be just what he needs…”

“Or exactly what he needs to make him crumble.”

Athos frowned, looking up from the piece of jewellery, “Surely the ring can only be positive..?”

“If he’s remembering Constance and just not saying anything then the ring could act like a bridge into a conversation, could be good for him,” Athos nodded as Aramis explained his thinking, “But if his brain has blocked her out for some reason – maybe it was too painful to remember her during the torture, I don’t know – the sudden confrontation of those memories may not be good for his recovery.”

Athos blew out a breath, realising what Aramis was getting at. There was a choice to make, a choice that, if they made it wrong, could seriously damage their friend. The decision in front of his left his mouth dry, but who else was there to make it? Out of everyone, out of Aramis and Porthos and Treville… Athos knew the boy the best. He was the one best equipped to make the decision… But best equipped didn’t mean well equipped…

“So…” Aramis prompted, forcing Athos to finally tear his gaze away from the ring in his hand, “What do we do?”

Athos swallowed, flipping the ring around until it was closed safely inside his palm.

“Honestly?” Athos’ eyes locked onto his friend’s, tension churning in his stomach, “I have no idea.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know quite a few of you have been waiting for this so here it is! Enjoy^^

But there wasn’t a choice, not really. Aramis’ resivations made sense. After all the introduction of the ring, of those memories, could simply prove to be too much too soon. The last thing Athos wanted was for what progress d’Artagnan had made to be ruined because they’d pushed him too far.

But still. It wasn’t a choice.

The ring belonged to d’Artagnan. The ring and the memories and the promises it held, they all belonged to him. It wasn’t Athos’ right to withhold that, any more than it had been Richelieu’s to keep him prisoner all that time.

By the time Athos let himself back into the room d’Artagnan’s eyes were open, even though his body hadn’t moved a muscle from the sleeping position. Athos forced a smile as he met his friend’s gaze.

“Welcome back,” Athos sat back down in his seat, offering his friend a small nod, “How do you feel?”

d’Artagnan’s eyebrow drew together as if he was truly considering the question. Athos couldn’t help but think how, before they’d lost him, d’Artagnan would have promised he was fine even if he’d lost an arm.

_Oh d’Artagnan…_

“Less foggy,” d’Artagnan settled on finally.

“Good,” This time the smile Athos offered felt a little more genuine, “That’s good. Anymore dreams?”

“No,” d’Artagnan shook his head, his hand running over the scar which looped around his eye.

“Good…”

Was that the only word he knew? Athos shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate, which was no easy task with the ring burning a hole in his palm.

“Come on, sit up, I’ve got something for you,” He watched d’Artagnan do as he’d been asked, shuffling upright and letting his legs cross loosly in front of him. Once he was settled he gave Athos a curious look.

“Did you bring me flowers?”

Athos actually smiled that time.

“You wish… No I, I have something of yours, if you want it?”

When d’Artagnan nodded and offered his unscarred hand Athos drew a breath. Now or never. He carefully unwound the chain away from the ring, leaving the view unobstructed. He let the jewellery hit heavily into d’Artagnan’s outstretched hand.

Well… Now it was time to wait.

For a second d’Artagnan didn’t move. He just stared at the gold in the palm of his hand, like he’d been handed a live hand grenade. When he did finally move his hands were slow, turning the golden ring over in his fingers until he had seen it from all angles. Once the piece of jewlerry had been appopiately inspected d’Artagnan raised the metal and pressed his to his lips. His eyes fluttered closed.

When he finally spoke, d’Artagnan’s voice sounded suspiciously thick, “This is… Mine?”

“I’d recognise it anywhere,” Athos nodded, “It was found in Richelieu’s office. He kept it, like a trophy I suppose, but Aramis found it. It’s yours. It’s only right that we give it back.”

d’Artagnan didn’t give a sign he had heard his friend. Silence filled the little room and Athos let it happen. He doubted it was silent inside d’Artagnan’s head, so he saw no reason to add to the noise. Good or bad Athos couldn’t tell, but whichever it was d’Artagnan would have to decide that for himself.

Finally, just as Athos thought he would lose his nerve, d’Artagnan spoke again. His voice was, suddenly, so young. It made Athos’ heart swell up into his throat.

“I thought I’d imagined her…”

Athos paused for a moment, forcing his emotions into check before he replied.

“Imagined who?”

d’Artagnan’s eyes finally opened. “She… I would dream about her, when the pain got bad… She was like a guardian angel, my guardian angel. She would say she loved me, that the pain would stop soon… After some time I just saw her face… Then her outline. It was like… Even the angel couldn’t survive in that hell… I lost her bit by bit... Until I convinced myself I’d made her up.”

d’Artagnan rubbed suspiciously at his eyes, but Athos didn’t make comment on it.

“I didn’t think she could be real. No one could love me after all this.”

Athos ignored the comment for now, even if it caused painful knots to twist inside his stomach.

“Do you remember her name?”

The silence returned, but this time it took hold for a shorter time before…

“Constance.”

And there it was. Athos forced himself to remain in his chair instead of enveloping d’Artagnan into a hug. He wanted too, he wanted to hold onto his friend and never let go, but that might ruin the moment. d’Artagnan seemed to slip back into his mind again, but this time Athos couldn’t keep his question from spilling out his mouth.

“We haven’t spoken with Constance yet. We thought it might be best to wait until you were awake, and then with everything which happened… Would you like to see her?”

For a second fear slide across d’Artagnan’s face. His hand reached up, tracing the raised hooked facial scar. Suddenly Athos understood. He couldn’t blame his friend for the hesitation.

“I…” d’Artagnan’s hand continued to worry against his scar, “I don’t…”

“She won’t care…” Athos reached up and gently removed d’Artagnan’s fingers from his marked face, “She won’t. This is your choice. If you aren’t ready then I won’t contact her, but I promise you she will not care about those.”

“And the rest?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice surprisingly small, “The ones she can’t see…” The scars on the inside…

“She loved you before…” Athos offered a cautious, little smile, “A few dents won’t put her off. That woman is nothing if not stubborn…” With another reassuring squeeze of his knee Athos sat back.

“I…” d’Artagnan’s voice remained quiet, although took on a reminisant tone, “I think I remember that…”

Athos let the boy explore those memories for a while in silence, he needed that time. Slowly a guarded smile flickered across his face.

“She hit me, didn’t she?”

“Only when you deserved it,” Athos promised which made d’Artagnan nod thoughtfully.

“So… often?”

Athos actually laughed, “Something like that.” He ran a hand tiredly through his hair, his heart lifting as d’Artagnan’s smile grew a little more natural.

“I… I’d like to see her,” d’Artagnan’s fingers ran nervously over his scarred arm, fingers tracing the angry harsh lines. Athos wasn’t sure whether he had noticed he was doing it.

The older man nodded all the same.

“Lemay hasn’t cleared you to leave just yet. Treville will want to speak to you, too.” d’Artagnan seemed to deflate at the news, offering a disappointed nod of resignation.

“But perhaps I could bring her here?”

* * *

 

“You’re chatty today…”

Constance glanced down at the baby boy on her hip who was babbling happily to himself. The little boy smiled up at her, one finger in his mouth, the other hand anchored firmly in Constance’s loose hair. The 10 month old’s dark hair fell away from his face in loose waves, big brown eyes looking up at his nanny. Constance, not for the first time, looked down at little boy and saw the smiling face of his father. His half Chilean, bright eyed father who had yet to meet his son. Constance didn’t mention the taboo topic, but did listen on the rare occasion Anne spoke of it. The last time Constance had been in the child’s nursery, watching mother and son play gently on the carpet.

_“He looks like him... Don’t you think? His father..?”_

The wistful, doleful tone of her best friend’s voice had made Constance’s heart break. It really wasn’t fair…

But the happy giggling tugged Constance from those dark thoughts. If there was one thing which could make her smile…

“Did you have a good nap?” She asked as she bounced the small body on her hip, her feet twirling lightly on the expensive tiles of the grand kitchen.

“’ap, ‘ap!” The little boy agreed readily, his hand finally untwisting from his nanny’s hair. He reached up, making a grab as he so often did for the shiny object around Constance’s neck.

“Fabian, no…” Constance sighed, gently removing his fingers from her wedding ring. She tucked it back under her blue sweater, out of sight and away from temptation. The boy pouted, as he always did when denied access to the ring, so Constance changed tactics.

“What do we want for a snack?” Constance spun carefully, the sudden movement distracting little boy who let out a giggle, “Do we want a yoghurt? Or banana?”

“Na na!” Fabian decided with a shriek, a little fist drumming on Constance’s shoulder before re-anchoring itself back into Constance’s hair, “Na na!”

“Okay, okay…” Constance opened the fridge to retrieve milk and snagged a banana from the fruit stand, “We can do that.”

It should have been awkward with one hand, but Constance was well practiced in making snacks with a child on her hip. Before long she had Fabian in his highchair, a bowl of banana and milk in front of him. She smiled as she fed the little boy, chatting aimlessly all the while. Once he was finished she cleaned his sticky face and fingers with a flannel, ignoring the squawk of indignation as she did so. She glanced at the clock. It was a little after 4pm. Anne would be back soon, although there was no telling when the Prime Minister would be. Constance didn’t trust the man, his smile never seemed to reach his eyes. At first she had assumed the erratic work schedule was part of the job. It was only when she’d caught Anne crying, a stain of lipstick on her husband’s collar, Constance had realised where Louis was spending a lot of his time.

“We could go to the park?” Constance suggested as she lifted the baby from his highchair, “Do you want to feed the ducks?”

“’us! ‘us!” Fabian seemed to agree whole heartedly, clapping his damp hands together.

She was about to attempt a one handed clean up, when a knock from the door drew her attention.

Cosette Belamay, the Royaline’s house keeper, stood in the doorway.  An older woman, perhaps in her early fifties, she was tall and thin with blonde hair, streaked with grey which was always swept up in a loose bun. Her hands twisted nervously against each other, lips nervously setting in a thin line.

“Constance dear, there is a man here to see you.”

Constance frowned, “A man?” No one came to visit her, man or otherwise. She saw Aramis once a month, Porthos maybe about the same, but neither _ever_ came to the house.

“Well I’m working,” Constance looked down to Fabian, who was helpfully tugging one of her curls straight, just to watch it spring back with a giggle, “Ask him to come back later.”

“I…” Madame Belamay’s eyes flickered nervously to the door and back again, “I can’t… It’s a police officer. He says he has to speak with you, so I showed him to the reception room.”

Nervous butterflies fluttered in Constance’s stomach. A police officer? What had she done? She swallowed, her lip caught between her teeth. The only thing she could think was…

But Captain Treville had promised! Her passport was hers, a gift after d’Artagnan’s service. No one would take it away, France had welcomed her with open arms!

Or apparently not…

“Could you…” Constance looked down to the little boy, “Well could you take Fabian while I speak with him?”

Madame Belamay shook her head. It was only then Constance noticed the older woman already had her coat on.

“You know I would Sweetheart, but it’s Wednesday –“

“Your husband’s dialysis…” Constance remembered suddenly. Madame Belamay left early every Wednesday to be by her husband’s side, “Of course. Go. I can manage. Madame Royaline should be home soon anyway.”

“Any other day…” The woman sighed, grabbing her purse, “You know I love the little one, but –“

“It’s fine,” Constance soothed gently, “I promise. I… Well I suppose I shouldn’t keep the man waiting, whoever he is.”

It was only then the woman continued to hover, watching Constance nervously, that she forced a smile.

“I’ll be fine. Honestly, just go. I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Madame Belamay still hovered guiltily, so Constance let herself out of the kitchen. Nerves contorted her stomach, wondering what she had possibly done to deserve a visit from the police. She looked down at Fabian, attempting to keep her face bright and calm.

“Well then…” She paused for a moment in front of the expensive oak door. Carefully she placed a gentle to the little boy’s curls, receiving a happy squeak from the 10 month old, “I suppose today is turning into an adventure.”

Before she lost her nerve she pushed the door open and forced a composed smile onto her face.

“I apologise for the wait, Monsieur,” Constance apologised as she shut the door behind her, “And pardon the little one. My employer won’t be home until –“

But the rest of the words died on the young woman’s lips. The man turned his attention from the bay but Constance already recognised the wavy dark hair and strong figure of her late husband’s best friend long before those blue eyes found hers. He looked older than she remembered. There were more fine lines around his eyes, a sadness in his gaze which hadn’t been here when she had last spoken with him.

Of course that had been a year ago, before the explosion, before…

“Athos?” Constance summoned her voice to obey her, although she couldn’t think of much else to say, “Athos.”

“Constance,” Athos stepped forward, and Constance took the day old hair and rumpled suit. He looked exhausted, “It’s good to see you. And this must be the Dauphin?”

The _Dauphin_. Constance had to supress a shudder. The nickname which the tabloids had landed Fabian with was truly awful. It was old fashioned and archaic but, as Monsieur Royaline pointed out, making a fuss would only encourage them more.

“Madame Royaline hates that name…” She muttered, unsure of what else to say.

The revelation made Athos nod, “Of course, forgive me. Fabian is far more suited.”

Constance could feel herself nodding, but only because she wasn’t sure of what else to say. An awkward silence settled between the pair. She had… Well she had kind of assumed that any sort of friendship they may had had was over, considering how Athos had cut her from his life. Aramis and Porthos had denied that he had, but Constance suspected that was just to spare her feelings. Actions spoke louder than words after all, and Athos had made his feelings clear when he cut off contact after d’Artagnan’s death.

“You look well…” Athos finally offered a little lamely, “How long have you been living here?”

“With the Royaline’s?” Constance looked down at the little boy in his arms, “Since Fabian came home from the hospital. Anne didn’t feel comfortable with the nanny Monsieur Royaline had hired. I was only meant to fill in until she found someone else but… Well it’s been a good fit. I love Fabian, and living here is… Well the flat felt wrong alone.”

A frown creased Athos’ already lined forehead, “But what happened to university. Surely if you work here then…?”

“They allowed me to defer my studies for a year.” It had been a blessing, offering her a year to straighten the remains of her crumbled life and to return to her degree when she felt ready.

Athos nodded, yet again looking like he was lost for words.  Constance couldn’t cope with the awkward silence, so forced it to break with a straight to the point question.

“What are you doing here, Athos?” Fabian began to wiggle on her hip, fussing at the lack of attention, so Constance bent down to set him on the thick carpet. He took off like a lightning bolt, crawling to explore the room he normally was barred from.

“You told the house keeper you were a police officer. Why?”

Athos at least had the decency to look a little embarrassed. He dug in his pocket and withdrew an authentic looking police badge and ID.

“We all have fakes, for emergencies. Sometimes it is necessary to pretend to be someone else in order to keep secrets.”

Constance just raised an eyebrow, “Secrets which I know of all too well. So I’ll ask again. Why?”

“I…” Athos ran a hand across his beard, his eyes settling on Fabian who was currently desperate to pull himself up onto one of the plush sofas, “I wasn’t sure if you’d see me if you… had known that it was me…”

Perhaps Athos had a point, but Constance wasn’t about to point that out.

“Well I am seeing you,” She crossed her arms over her chest, “But you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

Athos didn’t answer for a moment, instead he just watched the little boy’s continued struggle to make it onto the sofa. It took him a while to finally look back with an answer.

“I need you to come with me.”

Constance blinked, not completely sure she had heard correctly. When she didn’t reply Athos just continued.

“To accompany me to the Garrison.”

“Athos I’m working,” Constance shook her head. She crossed the room, rescuing the little boy who was dangling precariously off the sofa. She sat down on the dark leather cushion with Fabian perched on her knee. He bounced, beginning to babble again his instruction at her. Constance obeyed and began to bounce him, causing a few squeals of delight from the little boy.

“I can’t just leave because you show up here and demand it. What am I supposed to do? Leave a ten month old alone until someone gets home because you ask nicely?”

“Bring the child. I will have someone inform Madame Royaline of where you are,” Athos, after only a moment’s indecision, knelt carefully in front of his friend. The look in his eye was hard to place for a second. Not anger, but his gaze burned with a similar intensity. Passion maybe, adrenaline? Constance couldn’t remember an emotion such as that ever being in Athos’ eyes before.

“Athos I can’t just – “

“I’m sorry.” The words were small. A confession. Constance, honestly, wasn’t sure what to say. After a moment of silence Athos just pressed one.

“I abandoned you a year ago. I couldn’t bare to look at you because I didn’t think I could stand seeing the blame in your eyes. I was a coward. I, I _am_ a coward,” The truth tasted bitter on Athos’ tongue, “But now I’m here, I’m here, asking you to come to the Garrison. If the coward is doing that then it’s for a damned good reason.”

Constance swallowed, her knees stilling as she looked at Athos. Fabian looked round, grizzling at the sudden stillness but Constance barely noticed. Her eyes were focused on Athos determined gaze as he watched her, begging her.

“I need you to come with me. Please.”

* * *

 

The Garrison hadn’t changed… It was like the last year had never happened. It had the same buzz of people, the same levels of energy as people dressed in outfits ranging from professional office suits to black combat gear criss-crossed the rooms they walked through. The only difference, Constance noted, was that everyone was avoiding her gaze.

Athos’ hand remained firmly on the small of her back as he guided her, not towards the offices Constance realised with surprise, but towards the medical wing. She’d only been there twice, both to visit man during the quarantine.

Fabian twisted a little nervously against her shoulder, taking in the new situation while looking to her for comfort. Constance pressed a reassuring kiss to the toddler’s forehead as Athos, finally, came to a stop in a deserted corridor of the medical wing.

“Athos, what’s –“

“Constance!” The familiar shout of her voice made her turn, a wide smile splitting her face.

“Aramis!”

She turned in time to see a tanned man jog down the corridor, his dark curls bouncing wildly.

“Athos said you were –“ But the words died in his throat. He wasn’t looking at his friend anymore. Even with all the excitement of d’Artagnan, of Constance and Athos speaking again, his gaze narrowed on the big dark eyes which looked up at him from Constance’s shoulder. Three of Fabian’s fingers were stuffed in his mouth, the other fisting a handful of Constance’s jumper.  He snuggled back into Constance, blinking up at the man who watched him like everything else in his world had fallen away.

“Is-“ When Aramis found his voice again it was thick and full, “Is that..?”

“This is Fabian Royaline,” Constance brought a reassuring hand up, tucking some of the longer curls behind the little boys ear, “I nanny for him when Anne has engagements.”

“I…” Aramis cleared his throat, “I… Of course.”

Athos looked from Constance to Aramis and then down to the little boy in her arms. For a moment he forgot about the news, forgot about the _huge_ reason for bringing Constance back to the Garrison. Instead he took in the loose curls of Fabian, the boy’s big dark eyes… He might not have the perpetual tanned skin, but…

“Oh you stupid, _stupid,_ man!” Athos growled. He rounded on his friend as the penny dropped. Aramis didn’t even bother denying it, “Who else knows?”

“Just d’Artagnan. I told him during quarantine. I was going to tell you I swear but then –“

“This is not a discussion to have right now!” Constance cut firmly across the men, looking pointedly down at the boy in her arms, “Athos you are going to tell me what I am doing here or so help me I will walk back out that door!”

Aramis blinked back to his leader, confusion sliding across his face, even if his eyes pulled themselves back to his son.

“You haven’t told her?”

“It seemed more appropriate to have the conversation in the Garrison, where we could explain.”

Constance had had enough of being spoken about like she wasn’t there. She turned a glare onto Athos and was only kept from shouting by Fabian.

“ _What_ is going on?”

“Here,” Aramis reached out, eyes still fixed on the little boy, “Why don’t I take the boy while you two talk..?“

Athos gave Aramis a glare which he promptly ignored, looking to Constance instead, “I was twelve when my sisters were born. I’m no stranger to babies. Please…”

On a normal day Constance would refuse, but this was neither a normal day nor a normal person. With a sigh he looked down at Fabian, stroking his hair gently to get his attention.

“Fabian this is my friend Aramis. He’s going to find you a snack. Maybe a treat like a muffin?”

The idea of a treat sent Fabian bouncing, “-fin! –fin!”

Carefully Constance passed the little boy over. Fabian stiffened for a moment, taking in the sharp angles and rough, five o’clock shadow on the man’s face. He looked a little unsure, but when Aramis offered a smile.

 “-Fin?” He offered, which sent the boy giggling.

“-fin!” he declared, fist drumming indignantly against Aramis’ shoulder.

“Call me if you need anything,” Constance instructed, but Aramis wasn’t looking. He’d already turned in the direction of the cafeteria, he eyes were fixed on the little boy in his arms like he was the only person in the world.

Constance watched them until they were out of sight, before rounding on Athos, her fiery glare now fully in place.

“What is going on?” She demanded, “Tell me, now!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constance is back! Yay!

Athos just looked at the young woman for a moment. He attempted to collect his thoughts which were currently running riot.

Constance could suddenly feel her stomach twist, her mind searching for what this could possibly be about.

“We…” Athos scrubbed a hand through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath, “Constance, I swear to you we didn’t know. We didn’t lie, we didn’t… We just didn’t know…”

Constance could feel her heart begin to thud, to hammer against her chest.

“Athos, Athos just tell me. Please.”

Athos was many things, but Constance had never seen the man tongue tied. Athos was never flustered. His hand slipped from his hair downward, rubbing across his forehead with a sigh.

_“Athos!”_

“Just –“ He turned, grabbing the door knob and tugging the heavy door open, “- come here. Please.” He beckoned her through the gap, into the observation room. Athos kept his hand pressed into the small of her back, guiding her forward towards a large window which took up half the long wall. She looked up at Athos questioningly, who just nodded, walking her forward.

The two figures beyond the glass came into focus as they approached. A doctor in a white coat, asking questions and writing various notes on a clipboard. The patient sat on the bed, his back against the hospital wall, a hand anchored in his dirty, dark hair. The pair were talking, Constance couldn’t hear the words but could tell by the way his shoulders moved up and down. Constance stepped forward, this time of her own accord. Athos’ warm hand left the small of her back as he let her go. Constance reached the glass. The man’s face was hidden by his hair.

But the way his shoulders slanted forward, the way the figure brought his leg up and rested his chin on his knee… It reminded her of…

Suddenly Constance’s knees could no longer support her weight.

It couldn’t be.

There was no way.

A year. It had been a year of tears and mourning and visits to the grave and –

Constance would have hit the ground if Athos’ arms hadn’t caught her around the waist.

“It’s him…” He murmured, his mouth close to her ear, “It’s really him.”

Athos held onto Constance without complaint, even as his bad arm protested, until he was sure Constance was ready to stand on her own again.

“It’s okay…”

“He’s dead… Aramis, Captain Treville… They said he was killed in the explosion!”  Constance murmured, her eyes still glued to the figure on the bed. He offered up a horrendously scarred arm to the doctor, who began poking and prodding at the angry skin.

“We thought he was. That was the point, we were supposed to. They left a body for us to find, made us think d’Artagnan was dead so we wouldn’t look for him, wouldn’t search…”

“Who?” Constance’s mouth felt dry.

Athos hesitated a moment. The man who was behind this wouldn’t be a simple name to Constance. She’d know the man, know the legacy of what he was capable of. Part of Athos was tempted not to tell her, but then, he reasoned, Constance had been lied to enough.

“Richelieu,” Athos admitted finally, “The Guard had him…”

The sound which tore from Constance was a whine crossed with a howl, a heart breaking cry of a woman who knew full well the implication behind those words. Constance knew what that man was capable of, had seen the after effects of torture which Richelieu had handed down. Not often, but enough. Once one of the whores in the Silver Room had been caught attempting to contact the police… Richelieu had made every girl in the brothel watch as he’d, _disciplined,_ the poor girl. Constance could still hear the scream as Richelieu had put a bullet through a knee cap.

She didn’t realise she was being hugged tightly until Athos spoke again. His deep voice vibrated in his chest, tickling along her temple.

“We got it wrong,” Athos admitted, “We swallowed the lies we were fed. We believed it all and d’Artagnan paid the price. But he’s alive Constance… He’s _alive._ ”

Once Constance was sure she could breath again she pushed back from Athos, wiping a hand firmly under her eyes. Despite a sizable part of her worrying that d’Artagnan would disappear if her looked away for a second, she glanced back to Athos. A question formed on her lips, her stomach curling uncomfortably at what the answer may be.

“How long have you known?”

Athos hesitated, “At first I couldn’t have been sure, and then there were complications so we couldn’t –“

“Athos,” Constance’s current mood held no patience for anything but the truth, “How long?”

Air whispered out of the older man as his hand rubbed tiredly over his brow.

“I’ve suspected for 4 days but –“

The sharp, swift crack of a slap against Athos’ face shattered the tense silence in the little room.  Athos took a surprised step back, his hand reaching up to cover his cheek which was fast becoming a heated pink shade.

“Am I supposed to have deserved that?”

“4 days and you tell me _now!_ ” Constance hissed, her gaze hot and piercing against Athos’ blue eyes.

“I realise you feel like we should have-“

But Constance was done listening. She turned back to the glass, taking in the man in front of her all over again. “I want to see him.”

Athos nodded, rubbing at his still warm cheek, “And you can. Soon. But first I need to explain some things, they’re important.”

“Then do it.” With d’Artagnan so close, she wasn’t willing to wait a moment longer than necessary.

“d’Artagnan…” Athos let his eyes flicker from Constance’s face to the face of d’Artagnan through the window, “He’s been to hell and back. The last year has left its mark. d’Artagnan is back and that’s a miracle, but he’s not unscathed…”

* * *

 

“Here?”

“Minimal…”

Lemay’s finger tips slid down the scarred skin, from his elbow onto his forearm.

“Here?”

“Minimal….”

And onto his wrist.

“And here?”

“Nothing.”

Lemay nodded sadly. He withdrew gentle hand from his the younger man’s wrist. d’Artagnan watched as the doctor noted something down on his chart.

“The scarring is extensive,” Lemay murmured, but of course d’Artagnan already knew that, “Your mobility is excellent considering, but the sensitivity will likely never return. There are therapies which may help any area which still retains over fifty percent of nerve endings but…”

d’Artagnan shrugged, withdrawing his arm. He tugged his leg a little higher and rested his chin on the kneecap.

“I figured as much.”

Lemay settled his clip board on his lap, “Your shoulder wound, however, is healing well.”

d’Artagnan just nodded, “What’s one more scar..?”

The doctor, suddenly, seemed to be very interested his observation notes. d’Artagnan thought he should feel guilty, but couldn’t summon the emotion.

The swish of the observation door was a grateful distraction for both men. They turned their attention to Athos, who stood in the doorway with a tight smile. His eyes lingered on d’Artagnan for a moment, before they slide across to Lemay.

“Forgive the interruption, Doctor. Is there any way I can borrow our friend here?”

“Of course,” To be honest Lemay looked relieved to be excused.  He gathered his clipboard, offered a kind smile to d’Artagnan and slipped from the room by the door opposite.

d’Artagnan frowned at his friend, confusion creasing his brow at the curious expression on his friend’s face.

“Are you feeling up to a visitor?”

Suddenly d’Artagnan’s mouth felt dry. His fingers tightened on thin air, his skin, even the unburned, suddenly feeling impossibly tight.

“Is… Is she…?”

Athos nodded slowly. He watched as d’Artagnan’s hand traced nervously along his scarred arm, eyes flicking back nervously to the one way glass. To where Constance would be…

“I think she’d like to see you.”

There was a part, a surprisingly sizable part, which urged d’Artagnan to tell Athos no, to change his mind and send her away. Because refusing to see her would hurt less than a rejection. Hurt less than watching the love he remembered that angel’s eyes die as she took in the man he was now. How broken he was now. She had promised to love the man he had been, not the monster he’d been turned into.

But… d’Artagnan wasn’t a coward. He’d faced Rochefort and gun fights and fire and Richelieu… He could face this.

“Okay…” d’Artagnan forced the word out of his mouth, dropping his feet off the bed and onto the floor. His elbows rested on his thighs. He couldn’t help but look back down to the thick, angry skin which covered his arm. Now or never… “I’d like to see her.”

Athos nodded. He moved back, carefully as not to let the door shut behind him and muttered something. There was a pause and then d’Artagnan watched his friend and mentor step back, making room.

His heart hammered, threatening to explode against his chest as the squeak of trainers on the tiled floor approached.

d’Artagnan knew he wasn’t ready, there was no way he’d ever be ready, but he realised just how ill-prepared he was as the small woman appeared in the doorway.

She was more beautiful than d’Artagnan remembered. Pale, with wild dark hair which curled, framing her face and tumbling down past her shoulders. She was slight and graceful, even in dark wash jeans, a thick knit sweater and converses. Her light eyes caused an explosion of memories inside d’Artagnan’s mind, of smiles and kisses and promises and…

Love.

This was going to hurt so much more.

For a moment d’Artagnan just swallowed, eyes stuck on the woman in front of him. Words he could say, wanted to say, were swirling in his head, English words mixing and swirling with Russian, rolling together until he it was difficult pick individual thoughts apart.

“Can we…” Constance swallowed, her hands twitching the edge of her sweater, “Can we have some privacy?”

But Athos shook his head, “I’m sorry… Treville’s orders.”

“It’s probably for the best…” d’Artagnan muttered, his eyes finally dropping to his hands. They balled themselves into fists, “Wouldn’t want me to attack someone again.”

Constance would find out anyway… Why wait? Why prolong the inevitable?

“d’Artagnan…” Athos voice was hard with warning. d’Artagnan ignored it.

“What Athos? Didn’t you tell her about how I held a knife to your throat?” The words were spat at the floor. Once they started d’Artagnan found it impossible to stop. “What about how Porthos had to shoot me to get me of you? Or about how Richelieu turned me into his pet? How about how I would have killed you if I hadn’t been tazzered?”

A bitter laugh filled the room and it took d’Artagnan a moment to realise it was his own.

“I’m not to be trusted – “

“d’Artagnan that’s enough!” Athos snapped, ready to usher Constance from the room and put a stop to this whole thing. Perhaps d’Artagnan wasn’t ready, perhaps this was too much, too soon, but then Constance stepped forward.

“Stop it.”

D’Artagnan snorted, “Stop what? He ruined me. He broke me. I can’t be _trusted_ anymore, not by Athos, or the Musketeers or you! Anyone!”

 _“_ Stop _,_ ” Constance’s eyes narrowed on the man on the bed, watching him do his very best to implode his oldest relationship. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

“You shouldn’t have come,” d’Artagnan kept his eyes focused on his hands and the clenched into fists over and over, “You wouldn’t have come if you knew who, what, I was now. I’m not the man you married. Richelieu killed him –“

“ _Stop it!”_ The Russian words cut across d’Artagnan’s self-loathing, pausing his mouth mid flow. Silence, thick and heavy filled the room. Athos wondered for a second if Constance was going to spin on her heels and flee the room. But that girl was no coward. Slowly, carefully Constance’s feet picked her way across the floor, towards the bed. d’Artagnan didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on his hands, knuckles turning white as the muscles clenched.

Well, Constance decided, if he wouldn’t look at her…

She knelt down carefully, reaching up and covering d’Artagnan’s fists with her own hands. He flinched at first but Constance kept a gentle hold. Her thumb rubbed across the touch scarred skin of the back of his hand. The scars were alarming, there was no denying that. But Constance had allowed herself a breakdown before she entered the room. There was no time for that now. One of them needed to be strong… If it couldn’t be d’Artagnan then…

“ _Don’t push me out…”_ This time Constance’s Russian words were gentler. Constance kept up her gentle touches, expecting d’Artagnan to relax like he would have a year ago.

The boy remained just as tense.

 _“It didn’t work when we first met…”_ Constance chewed along her lip, waiting for d’Artagnan to look at her, “ _It won’t work now…”_

When d’Artagnan didn’t look up she pressed forward. If he didn’t remember then… Constance swallowed… Then he needed reminded.

“ _Your first day at the group home.. Do you remember?_ ” Constance’s thumb continued its gentle strokes of the back of his scarred hand, “ _The day you picked a fight with half the boys there…”_

* * *

_Constance heard the commotion before long before she saw it. Shouts and curses were hardly uncommon for a group home which housed twenty-two teenagers, but the sheer volume of the yelling coming from the social room got her attention. As she shoved the door open the incoherent shouts formed into words. Angry, biting words._

_“You want a fight? Fine! I’ll take you too!”_

_“The new boy is crazy!”_

_“New boy’s got some fight!”_

_Constance stumbled into the room, staring round the room wildly. Three of the older boys were crowded around the furthest corner, a flash of sleek, dark hair at the centre._

_“Yasha enough!”_

_At Constance’s shout the biggest boy turned around. Yasha was a broad seventeen year old with dark close cropped hair and an easy smile. He held up a hand in surrender._

_“Common Constance, we didn’t start it!” Yasha stepped away, revealing the kid she hadn’t met for the first time. He was younger the boys surrounding him, maybe her age or little younger, with tanned his and dark hair which fell into his eyes. Blood welled under his nose and collected onto his top lip._

_“The boy’s crazy!”_

_Constance just shot a glare and Yasha held up his hands in defeat._

_“Fine, fine! Was boring anyways…” With the jerk of his head the three boys drifted away, leaving the boy slumped alone in the corner. He balled his hoodie sleeve into his hand and dabbed at his face. Constance winced. She stepped forward and dug into the pocket of her jeans. He pulled out a tissue and held it out._

_“Here…”_

_The boy looked up, his dark eyes glaring at the white material like it was a trap. He kept the materiel pressed to his face and shoved himself back to his feet with his other hand._

_“I don’t need your help.”_

_Constance’s eyebrows shot towards her hair line, “Oh really? Because from where I was standing it looked like you were about to get beaten to a pulp by the three biggest guys in this place if it wasn’t for me.”_

_“What are they? Your bodyguards?”_

_“No,” Constance frowned, “Why would you say that..?”_

_The boy shrugged, “Seemed to do what you tell them…”_

_“Me and Yasha arrived here within a week of each other… He likes me. It’s good to have friends here,” Constance sighed and pushed his hand away from his face, “You’ll ruin your sweater. Please.”_

_The boy glared for a moment longer, before giving in and taking the tissue. Reluctantly he began to blot at his face._

_“I don’t need a friend,” The boy said, still glaring as if Constance had personally ruined his day._

_“Fine,” Constance settled herself down on the arm of one of the threadbare sofas, “I’m Constance.”_

_The boy’s eyes narrowed._

_“I said I didn’t want to be your friend.”_

_Constance shrugged the as the boy finished cleaning his face. He looked up and for the first time Constance saw his eyes. There were a dark brown, creased with the anger she had expected, but there was something else… Pain. Grief._

_Constance felt her heard hurt._

_“I know…” Constance shook herself out of her thoughts, “that doesn’t stop me from being Constance though… Doesn’t stop you from having a name either..?”_

_When d’Artagnan didn’t reply she leant forward deciding to press a little more._

_“Do I get to know your name?”_

_There was a pause. Constance wondered whether she was going to be rebuffed again. Maybe she was wasting her time… And then…_

_“d’Artagnan… My names d’Artagnan…”_

* * *

Constance waited, stomach twisting as d’Artagnan remained a statue. Athos had said d’Artagnan’s memories were… Sketchy at best…  It wasn’t that Constance hadn’t believed him but seeing it was something completely different.

What if he didn’t remember her, or them? What if his memories of his life before France never came back? The idea sat heavily in her throat. Could he really forget their friendship which had grown into something more? About how they’d run away from the group home and crossed the border into Ukraine in pursuit of a fresh start. Of their ill-fated pact with Rochefort and their months in hell under the Guards control…

Constance didn’t know if she could cope with the love of her life forgetting their beginning.

But then she felt d’Artagnan’s hands relax ever so slightly.

 _“I didn’t want to be friends…”_ The Russian murmur of a memory sent a soft smile across Constance’s face. She squeezed his hand a little tighter. “ _You didn’t give me much choice…”_

_“You remember…”_

d’Artagnan offered a little shrug.

When he spoke again it came out a little bitter, “ _It’s… It’s foggy, like everything else.”_

 _“But you’ve remembered so much all ready. You’ve come so far…”_ Constance had meant it like a compliment, but she wasn’t sure d’Artagnan took as such. With a defeated sigh he withdrew his hands from Constance’s grasp. “ _Don’t…”_

But d’Artagnan was already moving away, shuffling away from Constance. She attempted to keep the hurt from her face, but she couldn’t quite keep her eyes from creasing in sadness.

“d’Artagnan…”

“What?”  Bitterness laced his words, slipping back into French without even noticing. “I can’t remember half my life. Most of what I do have doesn’t even feel like it’s _mine_! That’s meant to be, what? _Progress_? - ”

Constance felt a swell in her throat. He was pushing again, pushing her away to see if she would leave. Maybe it would be easier for d’Artagnan to be able to say that he’d pushed Constance out rather than admit she left.

Well he wasn’t going to get either.

“- What if this is it? If this is as good as it gets? What if I have to live _this_ life now? Where my most vivid memories are of being chained and tortured in some cell instead of you and our life together?”

Tears welled up suddenly and, although d’Artagnan ducked his head, Constance caught sight of them. Slowly, giving d’Artagnan ample chance to pull away, she reached up. Her soft hands found d’Artagnan’s face, her thumbs tracing his strong cheek bones, before sliding up and along the hooked scar.

Constance forced herself to smile, blinking back her own matching back.

“If that is the case… If those memories are gone or foggy or…” Constance swallowed, wiping a stray tear from her husband’s eye, “Then we’ll make new ones. New, happy, memories…”

d’Artagnan exhaled a long breath, his eyes closing themselves to avoid anymore traitorous tears escaping. He remained silent for a moment, although did allow Constance’s gentle touch. Her thumb continued its gentle stroke of the raised scar which now framed one eye.

When d’Artagnan did finally speak it came out quiet, the broken voice of a young, terrified man.

“…Promise?”

“I promise…” Constance leant forward and pressed her lips to the new scar, the kiss offered just above his eyebrow, “We have a lifetime…”

 


	13. Chapter 13

The canteen had been busy, so after Aramis had purchased a muffin and the pair had retreated back to the Unit 2 office. The little boy had chattered happily the whole way, babbling and attempting to repeat words as they walked. Aramis nodded along, feigning surprise as if Fabian was explaining the meaning of life. Even after they’d sat down at his desk the little boy had continued, around tiny bites of muffin. It was like Fabian was holding court from Aramis’ knee and Aramis was beyond contented to listen. Still nodding and smiling, Aramis took the time to map the little boy’s face. He drank him in, committing every detail to memory as there was no guarantee there would be another chance. The dark curls were sleek and smooth and Aramis couldn’t help but stroke his hand through them. Fabian didn’t seem to mind, in fact the gentle touches seem to lull the boy into relaxation. The babbles got quieter until, full of muffin and milk, Fabian’s little head settled down against Aramis’ collarbone. His little head settled over Aramis’ heart, little breaths slowing to come into line with the steady rhythm of the man’s heartbeat. Before long his eyes slipped closed, fingers stuck in his mouth as the boy slipped into sleep.

It had been well over ten years since Aramis had held a child this small. He’d been twelve when his sisters had been born and they’d yet to settle down to have their own, so he felt a little out of practice. Still, it came back quickly enough. He settled back in his chair, keeping his movements slow as not to disturb the figure, and stretched his legs. His eyes, yet again, found the little boy’s face, slack with sleep and drooling on his shoulder. Suddenly forgot how to breathe.

Fabian was perfect, more perfect than even the tabloids had made out. His skin was pale like his mothers, nose slim and pointed, with a fan of soft dark lashed that settled against his cheek. There were freckles, just like Anne’s which she usually covered with powder, which dusted his cheeks and nose. The familiarity made Aramis smile, even as his heart constricted and threatened to explode.

He’d wanted this life. Anne might not have believed him, but he had. When Anne had admitted the pregnancy, Aramis had realised he’d have done anything to become a family. He’d have left the Musketeers, left the country, done whatever Anne had asked. He’d have walked to Hell and back to ensure that Anne and this little bundle of hope were happy and taken care of. He’d have done anything.

Only she hadn’t wanted that.

The memory of that meeting caused Aramis’ eyes to squeeze shut, the memory of the heartbreak which had only dulled somewhat with time. 

Maybe he just wasn’t meant to be happy. Maybe that just wasn’t on the cards for him.

Aramis blew a sad breath out of his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of his son’s head. Well… If this was the only chance he was going to get, he was going to make it count.

* * *

 

The pair had settled into comfortable talk. As they explored d’Artagnan’s memories, all the fogginess and confusion. Constance had wound up on the bed, her head settled in her husband’s lap. Technically, Athos was fairly sure he should have put a stop to it, but the arrangement was clearly helping his friend. Every time d’Artagnan’s voice faltered, every time it seemed as though he was on the brink of losing himself inside his own mind, his eyes would close and hands would anchor themselves into Constance’s hair. They would wind themselves around the dark, curly strands as he would breathe deep. At the same time Constance’s hand would reach up and find a piece of d’Artagnan’s bare skin, sometimes his neck or either arm, and stroke it until the moment passed and his eyes reopened.

“I thought about you,” d’Artagnan admitted after one of these moments, his hands twirling a strand of hair to keep him grounded, “Even after Richelieu… I used to see you. When I blacked out or drifted or… I’d see your face. Even when I couldn’t remember your name, you’d smile and promise me it would be over soon…”

Perhaps it should have stung, Constance thought, hearing that her husband had forgotten her name. She figured she should feel hurt, or even offended by the revelation, but instead all she realised she was proud. Proud that, even if she couldn’t have been there, she could still help in some way. It was better than nothing.

“And it is over…” Constance confirmed. She twisted herself carefully until she was staring up at her husband. She smiled carefully. “You came back to me…”

She reached her hand up to trace the facial scar which was first becoming her favourite feature. The scar was a testament to how strong her husband was, how much he could endure and still not break. Bend yes, dent yes, but not break.  The scar reminded of d’Artagnan’s resilience, of his strength.

The calm was shattered by the buzz of Athos’ phone. He muttered an apology and answered the call.

“Captain?”

d’Artagnan and Constance looked up from their spot on the bed as Athos frowned.

“Constance is here with – No her phone hasn’t – hold on-“ Athos looked down at Constance, covering the mouth piece of the phone, “Where’s your phone?”

Constance blinked in surprise, “In my bag?”

“Which is where?”

The penny dropped and Constance at up with a mutter.

“It’s in the other room – What’s? What’s going on?”

Athos shook a head and disappeared into the adjoining room. He returned a moment later with her navy back pack which he tossed onto the bed next to her.

“Hold on she’s checking it now…” Athos said as he offered her a pointed look which suggested she follow his instructions.

Constance tugged her phone out of the front pocket and touched the screen lock button.

The groan which tore from the young woman made d’Artagnan frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“Three voice mails, six missed calls and…” Constance paused for a second, stress cracking her voice, “Twenty-one texts…”

“From who?” d’Artagnan asked. For a moment he imagined who could be on the other side of the phone, a new partner, someone who Constance had met during his year’s absence. The idea suddenly made him want to throw up. He hadn’t asked, he hadn’t thought to –

If she had moved on…

“Yes,” Athos was back on the phone, “Yes she’s has it now. Should she – okay, okay I’ll tell her. Thank you, Captain.”

With the phone call ended, Athos stuffed the phone back into his suit pocket.

“Madame Royaline has been trying to call you for the last forty-five minutes.”

“I know!” Constance scrambled off the bed, leaving a stricken d’Artagnan watching her. “I’m in so much trouble. I need to call her back, just let me – “

“That won’t be necessary,” Athos cut across her, “The prime minister’s wife is in the foyer.”

And just like that, Constance could see her job disappearing before her eyes, “What?”

“I think you accidentally kidnapped the Dauphin of France.”

* * *

 

d’Artagnan, despite every indignant protest he could think of, hadn’t been allowed leave the medical wing. Athos had put his foot down. In the end it was Constance’s promises which had convinced him to sit back on the bed.

_“Lemay has more tests to run, and you need to rest. I’ll come back tonight, I promise… I’ll spend the whole night here with you but right now I need to go and see Anne.”_

With a kiss pressed to d’Artagnan’s new favourite feature they had parted. It was only as she hurried to keep up with Athos’ striding pace that panic began to churn in her stomach. She was in so much trouble. She’d left a message on Anne’s voice mail, telling her she had been summoned to the Garrison and she would explain everything as soon as she understood.

Only that second phone call hadn’t happened and the woman had clearly panicked.

Constance knew that, despite how much trouble she may be in with Anne, if she had been frantic enough to call her husband she would be out of a job. It was not that Louis Royaline disliked her per say… She just wasn’t of their station. He had originally hired a nanny which had come with the highest of recommendations so when Anne had fired her and replaced with an immigrant from Russia he hadn’t been impressed. The decision had actually caused an almighty row between the married couple, during which Constance had hovered awkwardly in the other room. In the end he’d agreed, with the parting words, “ _We’ll see how it goes.”_

If Anne had called him in the panic? Constance knew he would use it as an excuse to dismiss her. And, to be honest, Constance didn’t think she could blame him.

The lift dinged as it reached the foyer and, just before the doors opened, Athos reached across the space between the pair and gave Constance’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“It will be fine…” He murmured as the door slid open. Constance could only hope that she was right.

She stepped out of the lift and eyes immediately found the woman who had summoned her. Anne Royaline was a woman who was normally unflappable. Years in the political spotlight had refined her skills in neutrality, of schooling her face into an unreadable mask. Today though? Madame Royaline looked as though she was holding on by her finger tips. She stood at reception in a long cream trench coat and her navy court heels. Thin fingers rubbed along her defined brow and strands of honey blond hair fell from her normally immaculate bun.

The noise from the lift made the woman’s eyes snap open. A sound of relief rushed from the woman as Constance made a half run towards her, Athos striding forward only a few feet behind.

“I’m sorry!” Were the first words out of the Russian’s mouth as Anne caught her in a hug. Anne was taller than Constance, which caused her head to fit comfortably under Anne’s chin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you – I didn’t mean too –“

Anne pulled back suddenly, her hands on Constance’s shoulders.

“Are you alright?” Anne’s eyes roamed over the smaller woman, looking for cuts or bruises but finding nothing, “Are you under arrest-“ Her eyes slid to Athos, glaring at him. Athos looked back in surprise as Anne Royaline drew herself up to her full height, a well practice glare shot at him and could have pinned the feet of a weaker man to the floor.

“Is she under arrest?” The older woman demanded, “You promised her citizenship was safe, she hasn’t done anything to have that revoked! She has been under my employ for a year and has been nothing but an exemplary employee for the last twelve months!”

Anne’s arm pulled Constance protectively to her side and continued to level a glare of ice cold steel at Athos.

“If you attempt to revoke her citizenship or remand her to a facility pending re-evaluation I will rain hell down on this agency with the backing of every single one of my husband’s lawyers. It would be a _severe_ error in judgement, Athos. You can _quote_ me on that.”

Athos, to his credit, didn’t flinch. Instead he just linked his hands behind his back in his customary ‘at ease’ pose and arched a single eyebrow.

“Well then,” He drawled, his tone not disrespectful but definitely slow, as if explaining something complicated, “It’s just as well I have no intentions what so ever of arresting Madame de Lupiac.”

Anne blinked, frowning for a second, “Oh… Well good.” Her gave dropped from Athos back to Constance, the fire ebbing out of her gaze, only to be replaced a moment later by a fresh blaze.

“Then what on _earth_ are you doing here and where is my son?”

* * *

 

Aramis wasn’t sure if it was the soft Spanish words or the gentle vibrations in his chest but when, a few minutes ago, the child had started fussing, he’d settled back a moment later after only a few lines.

The song was one of the few memories he had of his birth father. When Aramis had been sad, or sick, his father would gently rub his back and sing. Those memories were some of his favourites of his life in Chile. His father had been useless, Aramis could see that now through adult eyes, but his singing soothed the little boy’s saddened soul. Not that that was enough to make you a good father. He’d always sworn to himself that, when it was his turn, he’d do it better, do it properly.

Only he hadn’t even been given a chance. Anne had made that decision for him. On some level he understood. Anne had spent every moment of her life since university in the public eye, being scrutinized and gossiped about. To leave her husband, to admit being pregnant by another would lead her to be splashed across every tabloid magazine in the country, she wouldn’t be able to move without paparazzi snapping photos or reporters demanding comments. Her life would be over.

And to do it all for a man you knew loved you was one thing, but to do so for a man you feared might leave you would be quite another.

Because Aramis was sure, deep down, that Anne still doubted his feelings for her. She still worried he saw her as a conquest, a prize which he’d won. He’d gone down on his knee and asked for to marry him but she couldn’t believe his intentions were truthful. She truly didn’t believe that he loved him.

That was a hard truth to swallow.

“Your mother is a strong woman,” Aramis murmured, pressing a kiss to the little boy’s forehead, “Stubborn for sure. Stoic… It’s one of the reasons I first noticed her.”

It had been years since Aramis had been to confessional. He didn’t like the idea of it, despite his devotion to other Catholic traditions. His faith was private, between him and the God he hoped was listening. He didn’t need a priest as a middle man.

However, a sleeping ten month old? He seemed someone worthy to confess too.

“She was so beautiful… I was new to the Musketeers, new to working with Athos and Porthos. We were put on security detail for the previous Prime Minister at some charity garden party. Everyone was smiling and dancing, it was a proper black tie event… I was doing the rounds, checking the perimeter, when I saw her.”

Aramis let out a long sigh, his eyes closing to the memory. 

“I turned the corner into a walled side garden when I heard the argument, your mother in all her righteous glory. I don’t know exactly what it was about, I think she was taking objection to being forced into another photo op, but whatever it was she was _not_ happy. I only caught the end of it, but even once it was over a furious radiance poured from her. This swan, so beautiful and gentle, until you displeased her and then oohh… Did she attack…”

The memory of that golden August evening washed over him. Anne in a long, floor length gown, white with accents of gold along the deep neckline and long, flowing sleeves. Her hair had been combed up, twirled into a French twist which revealed the elegant curl of her neck…

“I didn’t realise she was crying for few moments. But it wasn’t… Sad… They were more silent, angry tears… I stepped forward and offered her a tissue. The moment she realised I was there, it was like a wall went up. She didn’t want anyone to see her vulnerable…”

A soft sigh escaped from Aramis’ mouth as the story paused. He looked down at the little boy.

The foreign voice for behind him made Aramis jump, the baby grizzling at being jolted but didn’t awaken.

“I don’t like anyone to see me vulnerable, Aramis. I never intended for you to take it personally.”

Aramis spun in his chair, hand carefully placed on Fabian’s back as not to unsettle the boy any further.

He hadn’t seen Anne since d’Artagnan’s funeral. Well that wasn’t exactly true. When Fabian had been born, the new family had been splashed across every newspaper and magazine in the country. Aramis had been torn in two between simultaneous urges to both burn the lying pages the moment he’d seen them and drink in every photograph of his new born son.

Now that boy was asleep and drooling on his shoulder, and the mother who had rejected him standing in the doorway to his office.

“Anne…”

Aramis pushed himself off his chair, which was somewhat awkward with one hand full of child, and stood up at full height. He offered a smile he’d hoped looked easy, but had a horrible feeling it had a nervous edge.

“I hope your weren’t worried. You see Constance –“

“Is here for d’Artagnan… I know.” Anne tucked a few fly-away hairs behind her ear and out of her face. “Can you believe it?”

“Up until this point I would have said no…” Aramis paused, his eyes trailing down to the child heavy in his arms, “But apparently it is a time for strange occurrences...”

Anne watched as Aramis ducked his head and pressed a gentle kiss to Fabian’s hair.

“He’s beautiful…”

“He… Yes he is,” Aramis heard the quake in Anne’s voice in a way which he’d never heard before, “Just like his father…”

Something twisted inside Aramis as he looked back up to Anne. There was a glistening in her eyes, a tenseness to her jaw which spoke of a huge effort being spent on keeping herself in check.

“Are you…” Aramis ventured, “Are you at least happy? With him I mean?”

“No.”

Anne crossed her arms over her chest. Aramis was sure it was meant to look defensive, but the grip of her hands didn’t escape him. Those long fingers weren’t clenched into fists, but instead clutching at the expensive sleeves of her jacket. She wasn’t angry, she was hanging on to her composure for dear life.

“I hate it. I hate him. I smile and play nice because that’s what’s expected, all the while he doesn’t even try to hide his affair from me. He comes home smelling of perfume with lipstick on his collar… He doesn’t care if know. He’s flaunting it…”

Anne’s eyes blinked hard, focusing her attention on the wall to the man’s left. Not Aramis.

“Anne I’m –“ Aramis’ hand reached out, intending to find her cheek, but Anne stepped back smartly out of his reach.

“I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry,” Anne shook her head. “You offered me an out, you offered me something else. I said no…” Anne ran a hand over her brow with a sigh, rubbing under her eyes in an effort to remain in control. “I suppose I’m just not supposed to be happy…”

The self-deprecating words cause Aramis’ frown to deepen, “That’s not true –“

“I shouldn’t complain,” Anne cut across Aramis, finally looking back to him, “I mean. I have my son, I have a wonderful friend in Constance. I can learn to be content with that.“

“But you shouldn’t have to!” This time Aramis movements were quick. He stepped forward, his hand finding Anne’s waist, keeping her close to him until she had to look in his eyes.

“You deserve so much more than _learning_ to be content. You deserve to be adored, worshiped. The person who wakes up beside you every day should thank God for being so lucky, not begrudge having to be there….”

Fabian shuffled on Aramis’ shoulder, hand balling a fist full of shirt into a tight grasp as he settled back down. Once Aramis was sure the little boy was settled he looked back up to the woman in front of her.

Anne’s gaze creased in sadness, “You think too much of me…”

“Or perhaps you think too little of yourself?”

This time when Aramis’ hand moved to Anne’s cheek she allowed the touch and, after a moment of tension, allowed herself to lean into the touch. The touch was kind and soft and familiar in the best possible way which made Anne’s insides ache in the knowledge of what she couldn’t have.

“I missed you…” Aramis admitted in a quiet voice, soft like an admittance of guilt, “I tried not too… I wanted to do as you asked. You asked me to let you go and I – I _tried_ , Anne… But I don’t think I can.”

“Aramis…”

“I didn’t offer you an out,” Aramis promised, thinking back on Anne’s earlier words, on the conversation where she’d rejected him over two years ago, “I didn’t ask you to leave Louis for me because I felt sorry for you. I asked because I love you, and I’m sure you loved me too…”

“You can’t mean that…” Anne’s voice tremored, her face so close to Aramis, tantalizingly close, dangerously close.

“Two years and my feelings haven’t changed. Two years of _trying_ to move on and forget what we had but I can’t. Anne I tried! I tried for forget the way your laugh made me smile, the way you fit into my arms like the missing part of _me._ I tried… But I can’t…”

Anne’s breath hitched, Aramis’ hand suddenly feeling scorching against her cheek.

“Tell me you’ve moved on…” Aramis continued, his voice low and measured, “Tell me you don’t feel anything for me anymore and I will never mention it again. I’ll be the picture of professionalism while you ride off with into the sunset with Louis and my son. Just…” Aramis’ head bent closer, a little awkward with the baby on his shoulder, until his lips were hovering _just_ above Anne’s.

“…Say the word.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

****

There was going to be a clash of wills, Porthos only wished he had some popcorn. There was rarely such excellent entertainment in the Garrison, arguments here and there, a suspect or two to interrogate, but never anything _this_ exciting. Constance going toe to toe with Athos promised to be an _excellent_ show down. The three were stood outside d’Artagnan’s little medical wing room, the argument filling the long corridor.

Constance, despite being a good head shorter than Athos, was offering a glare with such cold, hard, fury that Porthos thought it was a miracle that he hadn’t withered up or keeled over. He would _not_ want to go up against that woman, no thank you he would rather keep his limbs.

Athos though? He seemed to be stubborn enough to do so, or stupid enough, Porthos hadn’t decided which yet. Had Aramis been there Porthos would have been more than willing to take bets on the victor. His money would be on the fiery woman in front of him.

“It is _not_ allowed, Constance!” Athos ran a hand through his hair, knowing he was repeating himself for what felt like the hundredth time. Too bad the woman in front of her seemed unwilling to listen, “I’m sorry, but you can’t. You just _can’t._ ”

“Oh and how do you propose to stop me?” Constance’s eyebrow raised, “Do you plan to physically restrain me? Force me out of the medical wing by gunpoint? Because short of you picking me up and _dragging_ me out of d’Artagnan’s room I will _not_ be leaving tonight!”

Athos’ fingers twitched in such a way which suggested the man was sorely tempted to strangle the younger woman. “Constance be reasonable-“

“ _Athos_ be reasonable,” The younger woman parroted the man in a high voice which caused Porthos to snort with laughter. That proved to be a mistake when Constance turned his glare on her he held up a hand in apologetic surrender.

“Sorry.”

Once Porthos was appropriately chastised Constance turned back to Athos, her arms crossed over her chest, her face all hard lines of utter defiance.

“I am staying in that room with d’Artagnan tonight and unless you plan on handcuffing me out here you have no choice in the matter.”

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and muttered something under his breath which sounded rather like “don’t tempt me…”

The thing was Porthos could see both sides of the argument. Constance had only _just_ gotten her husband back and the idea of being separated again so soon would be heart wrenching, but he also knew that overnight guests in the medical wing weren’t allowed. Perhaps someone with appropriate security clearance could have been over looked but Constance was a civilian. Treville would castrate Athos for leaving _anyone_ without security clearance alone in the Garrison – Constance or not. It didn’t mean the Captain didn’t have compassion for the situation, but he had to look at the bigger picture.

Sadly, even though Porthos could see both points of view, it seemed like his friends could. They were never going to come to an agreement on their own and, although the argument was fun to watch, Porthos knew he had to intervene so they didn’t continue their argument all night. So it was just as well Porthos had an idea.Those two were like a rock and a hard place, stubborn to their last breathe… No wonder d’Artagnan loved them both.

 “Not that I don’ love the idea of throwin’ you over my shoulder and marchin’ you outa the Garrison,” Porthos smirked, ignoring the glare from Constance and the questioning look from Athos, “But I’ve gotta idea…”

* * *

 

Lemay had finished poking and prodding him about twenty minutes ago and d’Artagnan was fairly sure the man had investigated every part of his body. Heavy duty steroid cream had been smothered all over his scarred arm before it had been wrapped tightly in what d’Artagnan thought was cling film. The situation made him feel like an over mayonnaised sandwich. He wondered what the point of the treatment was, surely the damage was already done, but hadn’t bothered to ask.

Now he just lay on his bed, making sure to stay still to minimise the squeaking of his plasticy arm. The sound of his door being opened made d’Artagnan’s head snap up from his position from the bed.

Constance offered a smile, closing the door carefully behind her. d’Artagnan sat up carefully with a frown.

“Aren’t we supposed to be chaperoned?”

“Athos had to take a _very_ important call,” Constance said, knowing fine well Porthos had to all but sit on Athos outside to give them at least a few minutes of privacy. Her eyes slid to his arm, a frown tugging at her eyebrows as they took in the plastic, “What happened?”

“Lemay…” d’Artagnan reached up and stroked the plastic which covered his bad arm, “Some kind of treatment I suppose?”

Well that made sense. It surprised Constance that d’Artagnan hadn’t asked what it was for, but then he had plenty of other things on his mind. She stepped forward, ready to take up her previous residence on d’Artagnan’s knee, but he put up a hand to stop her, his eyes avoiding her own gaze.

“What’s wrong?” Constance frowned, attempting keep the hurt from her expression, “Don’t you want me to stay?”

“No I…” Oh God… How did you put all this into words? d’Artagnan had been over this speech in his mind countless times since Constance had left and he _still_ didn’t know what to say… After a few moments of silence d’Artagnan sighed, his face burying itself in his unwrapped hand.

“d’Artagnan…” Constance’s voice wafted down from above him, “What’s going on? _Talk_ to me…”

Oh God but did he not deserve her and d’Artagnan knew that. He hadn’t deserved her before and he _certainly_ didn’t now. She was gentle and kind and… Perfect. How could she still want him now..?

“I… I just want to say something… I want to tell you something and I need you to listen…” When d’Artagnan finally looked up Constance was nodded, she looked nervous, but she was nodding.

“Okay…”

“I…” Oh how did you start this? “I’ve been gone a long time.”

d’Artagnan paused, drew in a long, steadying breath, and continued.

“I’ve been gone and I left you alone so I want to… I want you to know that if you found someone else, if you found someone else to make you happy, that that’s okay…”

“d’Artagnan-“

But now he had started d’Artagnan found it hard to stop.

“I mean, I abandoned you. I left you alone in a country you barely knew and I couldn’t hate anyone that loves you like I do. If you moved on, if you found someone to make you smile then I’d be –“ Finally d’Artagnan found what little courage he had left and looked up, eyes locking with the woman he’d loved for eight years. “I’d accept that…”

Constance blinked for a second, processing all that d’Artagnan had just said. The silence caused made d’Artagnan’s heart thud faster. Was this the beginnings of a confession? Of an admittance of another.

But then Constance shook her head. She carefully bent down until the pair were at eye level, ensuring he had d’Artagnan’s eye contact before she began.

“Stop it.”

“Stop wh-“

“Stop pushing me out,” d’Artagnan looked like he was about to defend himself so her held up a hand, silencing him as she continued, “I’m not leaving. I’m not going _anywhere_. There’s no one else, there will never be anyone else. I fell in love with you. I loved you as a heart broken teenager, I loved you when you sold yourself to Rochefort to keep me safe. I loved you as a musketeer and I will love you now, no matter the changes. I have loved every side you I have seen and nothing will change that.”

Constance reached forward carefully and threaded her fingers through those of d’Artagnan’s which were uncovered.

“Stop testing me. I’m not going to leave. I’m not going to see some part of you I don’t like and run. I love all of you. Am I clear?”

“I...” Was he pushing her away? Not intentionally but… well… Maybe? Wouldn’t it hurt less if he let her go, rather than Constance leaving? He didn’t want her to go, he didn’t want to be alone again, but if that’s what she wanted..? d’Artagnan would never stand in the way of her happiness.

But then, apparently her happiness was tied up tightly with his own.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan ducked his head, long dark strands of hair sweeping down over his features, “Perfectly…”

“Good,” Constance leaned forward and placed a careful kiss on the man’s scarred brow, “Now let me up on the bed, the floor is cold…”

d’Artagnan’s lips twitched up into a small smile and shifted to the side, allowing Constance access to the mattress, which she gratefully accepted.

“Thank you…”

She settled down at his side, her head on his knee like before. d’Artagnan found his free hand slipping itself into her hair, winding the curls around his fingers. He enjoyed the sensitive tickles of the strands against his skin. The traitorous part of his mind reminded him that the likelihood of him ever feeling something similar in his left hand was slim to none, but he pushed the thought away. Instead he concentrated on the softness of Constance’s hair, the scent of honey and hope which wafted up from her position in his lap. Instead he concentrated on the disjointed memories of home.

Constance, actually, was quite impressed at how long Porthos managed to hold Athos off because it they were left alone for a good 5, maybe even 6, minutes before the door reopened. d’Artagnan looked up and offered his leader a small nod.

“How was your phone call?”

Athos frowned, “Phone call?” He looked down at Constance with a questioning gaze.

She offered a sideways shrug from her place in d’Artagnan’s lap. At least she had the decency to smirk a little.

“Phone call, did I say phone call? What I meant was Porthos was practically sitting on Athos outside to make him give us some privacy…”

Athos attempted to shoot a disinterested stare Constance’s way, but the small smirk which tugged at the edges of his mouth completely ruined his chances.

“You,” He crossed his arms over his chest and let his back sag against the wall, “Are a menace…”

“Now that’s just rude,” Constance stuck her tongue out before rolling onto her back so she could stare up at her husband, “How much do you remember about Athos and his grouchiness?”

d’Artagnan frowned a little and thought back, searching across his jumbled mind for an answer to Constance’s question.

Athos groaning, tied to a chair on the day they first met.

Athos growling his name, threatening to lynch him after he’d lied to Ninon about his tech lesson.

Athos ready to strangle him after the quarantine was lifted, promising to ‘ _kick him into the Seine’_ if he ever put himself in such reckless position again.

The smallest of smiles pulled at d’Artagnan’s lips, basking in the little memories as they came back.

“It’s coming back, what a moody fucker…”

This time Athos actually let out a laugh, “You cheeky brat!” He shook his head, continuing to mutter as he settled himself back against the wall, making himself comfortable.

Constance was laughing as well, and the sound made warmth swell inside d’Artagnan’s chest. He looked down at the young woman with a soft smile. Gently he reached down and tucked a couple of fly away strands of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve missed too much. A whole year... What happened? What did I miss?” d’Artagnan let his finger trail down the side of her face, stroking along the soft plains of her cheek. “Tell me.”

And so Constance did. She told him about her year, all of it. She spoke about his own funeral, about how Porthos and Aramis had hugged her so tight she thought she might break. She told him how Aramis had slept on their sofa that night, and she’d kicked him out in the morning because if she hadn’t he’d likely have still been there. She told him about her friendship with Anne and the birth of her son Fabian, a shine appearing in her eyes as she described the little boy’s loose dark curls and huge eyes. She didn’t mention his parentage, unsure whether d’Artagnan remembered the secret he had been party too, but did explain how she’d become the boy’s nanny an move into the large town house which belonged to the prime minister. She described her days spent with Fabian, days filled with nappy changes and baths and duck feeding…

As the stories rolled over him d’Artagnan’s eyes closed, but the continued soft stroke of his hand against Constance’s hair proved he was still listening. He was smiling again too, a small, gentle smile.

Athos snuck a glance at the pair from his phone, which he’d been pretending to read to give them the illusion of privacy. He couldn’t help but notice how relaxed he looked, more relaxed than he’d been since awakening in his small room. Constance had the most wonderful, soothing effect on d’Artagnan. It was like with her close he was practically his old self. Smiling and peaceful, it was a welcome sight.

Ninon had never been that for him, Athos could see that now. At his lowest point Ninon had been there, not for comfort exactly, but for distraction. She’d burned so brightly in his gaze he’d been blinded, unable to think of anything else apart from what she’d given him. He had used her to forget. By contrast, d’Artagnan used Constance to remember, to anchor him to his reality and to remind him of what was real. Theirs was a bond which had been could never break, a love which had been formed within the fires of Hell. He and Ninon, but contrast, had been frenzied into a grief driven lust. That wasn’t sustainable. Wasn’t a relationship. Perhaps it was best that their ill-advised coupling was over – and it _was_ over if the look Ninon had given her after their argument had been anything to go by. It was better to be alone.

Maybe, Athos mused, looking back to his phone, he just wasn’t the relationship sort…

A knock at the door cut Constance’s stories short. d’Artagnan’s eyes shot open, eyes suddenly guarded at the intrusion.

“Who’s that?”

Constance reached up and took hold of d’Artagnan’s hand with a reassuring squeeze. She sat up a little awkwardly as the door began to open. Carefully she pressed a reassuring kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay.”

The first thing d’Artagnan saw when the door opened was two large flat boxes with sleeping bag rolls and pillows balanced on top. All he could see from behind the stack were an explosion of tight, dark curls.

“No no…” Porthos peaked out from over the top of the awkward pile, “Just stay in the way Athos – no need ta’ help! Or even move, I can manage don’ you worry….”

Athos snorted and shot a kick out towards his ankles, but Porthos danced away with well-practiced footsteps.

“Now, now. I ‘ave dinner. That’s not kind…”

d’Artagnan frowned, realising for the first time what would be in the cardboard boxes.

“Dinner?”

“It was Porthos’ idea…” Constance smiled against his side, “Since I was downright refusing to leave the Garrison and Athos was about to have an aneurism at the idea of breaking the rules –“

“-It will be my ass Treville kicks up and down the corridor, not yours,” Athos cut in, which Constance completely ignored.

“-Porthos thought… There could be safety in numbers. Treville can’t possibly throw us all out of here. We could have dinner here and stay the night?”

Porthos tilted the box forward to the side, letting the soft pillows and sleeping bags tumble onto Athos’ head, grinning gleefully at the squawk of disgust. Once the attack on Athos was finished he tilted the box further to show the pizza logo to the couple on the bed.

For a second d’Artagnan just blinked and Porthos wondered if they had guessed wrong. Maybe he didn’t want company, maybe he needed to be alone. Maybe –

But then the boy smiled, eyes glancing up around the room.

“You two aren’t sharing my bed…”

The big man snorted and grabbed one of the chairs. He set the pizza down on the seat and flipped it open. The room filled with the glorious smell of cheese and pepperoni.

“That’s what the sleeping bags are for, Pup,” Porthos tossed a few napkins towards the couple on the bed, before he held one out to Athos.

“Hungry?”

“Always.”

Constance leaned forward and tugged the first slice from the box. She turned and offered it to her husband when someone knocked at the door again. Four sets of eyes swivelled to the door which had remained open since Porthos had arrived.

“A party without me? Should I be taking this personally?” Aramis smirked, his body curving subtly as he lent against the door frame.

Porthos rolled his eyes as he snagged his own piece, “I did invite you. Check your phone.”

Aramis fumbled his phone out of his breast pocket and flicked it on.

“Oh…” His eyebrows shot up after reading the text, “Fine. Retracted.”

“Are you coming in?” Constance asked, her eyes glancing to d’Artagnan for conformation. He nodded.

But Aramis hesitated, “I… I would but…” His gaze shot out of sight, twisting slightly as if in silent conversation. It was only then that Constance realised one of his hands was hidden out of view. His elbow was bent slightly, as if he was holding someone else’s.

Suddenly understand clicked into Constance’s mind. She knew exactly who’s hand Aramis was holding.

Good… Good for them…

They deserved come happiness.

“It’s fine,” She smiled, cutting off Porthos’ questions which was dancing on the tip of his tongue, “Go do what you need to. We’ll see you later.”

Aramis smiled gratefully, his eyes sliding from Constance to her husband.

“I’ll come and see you tomorrow?” Aramis’ lips might still be stretched in an easy smile, but there was a twinge of nervousness to his voice, “Would that be okay? I feel like I have some apologies to make.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes narrowed, his eyes flickering down to his plastic covered arm and back again.

“You can come see me, but if I hear the words ‘I’m sorry’ come out of your mouth I’ll kick your ass.”

Aramis blinked for a second, surprised by reaction. But then he smiled, really smiled, and Constance’s heart swelled.

“Noted. It’s good to have you back, d’Artagnan…”

With one more goodbye Aramis slipped from the room, leaving the other four to eat and chat as the night slipped away. d’Artagnan wrapped his good arm around Constance and enjoyed the warmth of her body against his own. He didn’t say much, but he listened and smiled and laughed. He enjoyed hearing the stories, some which he recognised other which he didn’t. He let the kind words wash over him, relaxing properly back for the first time in oh so long.

d’Artagnan couldn’t help is as his eyes slide shut, enjoying the lulling effect of being surrounded by voices he trusted implicitly.  He didn’t so much listen to the words anymore, but the comforting, familiar tones lulled him gently as a lullaby to a child.

Just as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, words of his own slid through him memory. They reminded him who he was and how _loved_ he was. A warm glow ebbed out through his chest and spread to every inch of his body. It surrounded him, encompassed him, keeping him safe as he slipped into a light sleep.

_My name is d’Artagnan de Lupiac._

_My wife’s name is Constance de Lupiac._

_My teammate’s names are Aramis Herblay and Porthos du Vallon._

_Our leader’s name is Athos Alexander._

_We are Musketeers_

_All for one and one for all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that is us at the end of this 'Blood Ties' story. Thank you for everyone who read, reviewed or left kudos! I adore knowing that people enjoy this random little universe.
> 
> I'd love to hear any and all feedback you have about the story - even suggestions about what you'd like to see! 
> 
> Love love
> 
> Lat ^^


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